


My Verse Distills Your Truth

by TheLucindaC, yourtinseltinkerbell



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: (also be prepared for General Theatre Nerdiness), (and maintained the pentameter), (except I'm not and I think he'd be so proud), (go count the syllables I dare you), (no YOU renamed Shakespeare plays to fit your fic), (no YOU totally appropriated and/or rewrote Shakespeare for the lulz), Adultery, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Theatre, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Background Poly, Bisexual Quentin Coldwater, Blow Jobs, Collaboration, Consensual Infidelity, Digital Art, Drama & Romance, Eliot Waugh actually say I Love You challenge, Eliot Waugh's Canonically Huge Dick, Emotionally Repressed, F/F, F/M, First Time, Found Family, Frottage, Grief/Mourning, Hand Jobs, Happy Ending, Historical Inaccuracy, I'm Sorry William Shakespeare, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Inspired by Shakespeare, Intercrural Sex, Literary References & Allusions, Love Confessions, M/M, Mentions of past child death, Meta, Mistaken Identity, Morning Cuddles, Morning Sex, Multi, Mutual Pining, Oral Sex, POV Multiple, Period-Typical Homophobia, Queer Friendship, References to Depression, Secret Identity Fail, Secret Relationship, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-26
Updated: 2020-09-26
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:34:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 140,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26427943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLucindaC/pseuds/TheLucindaC, https://archiveofourown.org/users/yourtinseltinkerbell/pseuds/yourtinseltinkerbell
Summary: It’s hard to be The Bard! Quentin Coldwater, playwright for The Whitespire Theater, is supposed to write a fantastic new love story in the span of three weeks. But breaking up with his muse Alice Quinn, and constant badgering from his boss Josh Hoberman, aren’t doing anything to help his crippling writer’s block. That is, until a new, unknown actor appears just in time during auditions, capturing his imagination and his heart. Eliot Waugh has turned to acting for one last adventure before he’s forced to marry Lady Fen of Wessex. Together, Quentin and Eliot risk everything for the chance to show the world that a simple play truly can depict “the beauty of all life.”Based on Shakespeare in Love (1999) for the Magicians Happily Ever After collection.
Relationships: Brian/Nigel (The Magicians), Margo Hanson & Eliot Waugh, Quentin Coldwater & Margo Hanson, Quentin Coldwater/Alice Quinn, Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh, Rupert Chatwin/Lance Morrison, Todd & Eliot Waugh, William "Penny" Adiyodi/Kady Orloff-Diaz/Alice Quinn
Comments: 67
Kudos: 59
Collections: Magicians Happy Ever After





	1. Dramatis Personae & Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> *taps mic* This thing on?
> 
> Alright, everybody, places! Stage manager, I need house at half. 
> 
> Annnnnnddd.....cue intro!
> 
> **Notes from The Artist:** TheLucindaC--I've had so much fun working on this with you. I've appreciated your support and feedback so much, and I so admire the passion and care with which you've constructed this story. I also want to give a shout-out to to the mods, for running this event again, and to the talented, passionate fandom, that keeps giving these characters stories.
> 
> **Notes from The Author:** This huge undertaking wouldn't have been possible without the MHEA mods. I'm so grateful to be a part of this awesome project. Mega, gigantic, infinite thanks to my betas Cee and Ashley, and to all my friends who put up with all the griping and worrying I did about this thing. And I will never stop thanking [yourtinseltinkerbell](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yourtinseltinkerbell/pseuds/yourtinseltinkerbell) for all of her love and support. This fic literally would not have happened without her. She's been my cheerleader, my confidant, my muse. I would look forward to every one of our emails so I could gawk and squeal and wax poetic about her fucking GORGEOUS, STUNNING art. You guys are in for such a treat when you see her pieces.
> 
> On a more serious note: as you saw in the tags, the social attitudes of Elizabethan England about LGBT+ folks are going to be a factor in this story, for the sake of dramatic tension and character arcs. Rest assured, none of the good guys have any phobic beliefs. Some of them may act in certain ways due to their genuine ignorance, but it is not malicious, and they do make reparations once they realize their mistakes and learn to be better. Bear in mind, many aspects of LGBT+ culture were still (wrongly!) criminalized by the law and the church at this time. And that's not saying anything about Elizabethan concepts of gender; about masculinity, femininity, non-binary identities, etc. That has an effect on how they think and act too.
> 
> But theatre has been an inherently queer-friendly place since its invention in Ancient Greece. I hope to highlight that in this work. And I hope to highlight how theatre is a truly beautiful art form, no matter whether it's a career or a hobby. The best kind of theatre, no matter which play you produce, creates this little family of strangers and friends. A family that goes on a journey together just as much as the audience does, every time. Theatre helps you find yourself. Helps you learn about different groups of people and different ideas. Helps you go on adventures you'd never get to otherwise. It's not for everyone, sure, but at the same time, it is. 
> 
> I've loved theatre since before I could even read. It's given me so much hope and strength over the years, much like The Magicians has relatively recently. I hope this fic pays homage to that, at least a little, and I hope you enjoy it, and don't get too tired of all my little inside jokes. Much love, dear readers. Here we go!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick little warning: what Josh goes through in the prologue is a bit violent, but I promise you he does not actually incur any physical harm.

* * *

[ ](https://yourtinseltinkerbell.tumblr.com/post/630338965678997504/themagicianshhe-title-my-verse-distills-your)

* * *

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

Quentin Coldwater – a playwright

Eliot Waugh – a gentleman

Margo Hanson – a legendary actress, friend to Quentin

Josh Hoberman – manager of The Whitespire Theater

Kady Orloff – manager of The Blackspire Theater, rival to The Whitespire

Alice Quinn – Orloff’s mistress

Julia the First, of House Wicker – Queen of England

Penny Adiyodi – Master of the Revels

Lady Fen of Wessex – a noblewoman

Todd – butler to Eliot

Marina Andrieski – a moneylender

Poppy Kline – an urchin

Sebastian King – a famous playwright, contemporary to Quentin

The Whitespire company – Henry Fogg, Tick Pickwick, Zelda, Harriet, Rafe, Abigail, Sunderland, Lipson, Bingle, Victoria, and Skye

The Admiral’s Men – Mike, Idri, Ess, Micah

The Chamberlain’s Men – Lunk, Dylan, Whitley, Bigby, Silver, Bender, Menolly, Richard, Cancer Puppy, and others

Bacchus – an apothecary

Plum – a musician

Pete – Andrieski’s henchman

Sir Waugh – father of Eliot

Lady Waugh – mother of Eliot

A Boatman, Citizens of England, Maskers, Servingmen, Pages, Musicians, and Merchants

* * *

PROLOGUE

There’s nothing like the smell of burning soles in the morning, Marina thinks. The devil may have his due, but Marina always gets her cut first. She really ought to pay a visit to the cobbler down the street. It’s about time she thanked him, personally, for the utter-shit quality of his work. It makes her day much easier.

She flicks her eyes down to the brazier of coals. The pair of boots currently roasting atop them belong to Josh Hoberman. He owes her quite a sum. Squirming and straining beneath the ropes tying him to his chair, sweat beads on his forehead. The armpits of his dirty brown doublet are equally soaked through. At least he hasn’t soiled his breeches yet.

With a wave, she gives Pete the signal. He pulls on a taut rope, one which winds its way upwards, through a hook attached to the ceiling, and back down to wrap around Josh’s ankles. The tug lifts his feet out of the fire.

“Oh, fuck, thank you, thank you,” Josh pants. He squeezes his bound hands together in gratitude.

“You wanna try that again?” Marina asks, brushing ash off of her sleeve.

“I’ll have your money, soon, I swear. It’s on its way.”

She looks at Pete. He smiles and lets go of the rope.

“Yaaaaaa!” Josh howls, his heels plunging back down.

Marina watches with mild interest as they start to smoke again. She wonders how many calluses Hoberman has on his feet. How quickly they’ll blister. “You’ve defaulted three times. I dunno if you ‘swearing’ means anything anymore.”

“I’m gonna pay you! It’s coming! The money’s coming!”

She doesn’t give Pete the signal this time.

“Please! Gimme two weeks. Three at the most.”

Pete crosses his arms and leans against a nearby post. “Where _are_ you going to get sixteen pounds, twelve shillings – plus interest – in two weeks?”

“I’ve got a play coming up.” Josh’s boots are smoking profusely now. The leather must’ve charred away altogether. “A comedy.”

Marina frowns. “Pete, would you mind cutting off his nose and bringing it to me?”

He moves to do so. As the knife presses against Josh’s septum, he nasally whines, “It’s a new one. Never been seen before. By Quentin Coldwater.”

Oh. Interesting. The queen herself’s been asking for his plays quite a lot lately. If Hoberman’s getting a _new_ one soon.... 

Nah. Not good enough. 

She snaps her fingers. “Actually, I want the ears first, then the nose.”

Just as Pete is about to break the skin, Josh throws out, “You’ll get a share too!”

That’s better.

“A share?” She nods at Pete again. He retreats, sheathing the dagger, and Josh’s feet rise back up again.

Eventually, after he catches his breath, the pathetic fellow takes the hint he should keep talking. “We’ll be partners, Marina. Partners, okay? The crowd’s gonna love it. The play, I mean. There’s, you know, mistaken identities, and some fights, and um. There’s the bit with the dog! Everyone loves those. And a pirate king. And love wins in the end!”

This sounds like every play Marina’s ever heard of. But that doesn’t mean there won’t be some profit in it. People go to plays for lots of reasons. To laugh. To throw rotten food. To pass some time before supper. Maybe even learn something. And they don’t care whether they’ve seen the plot before. Sometimes they even prefer it that way. Makes it easier to follow. They’ll pay to see characters they’ve grown fond of; characters they’ll want to cheer and weep for, over and over, so long as the actors are any good.

Plus, if a theater manages to attract some members of the higher class, so much the better. People also pay to be seen as better off than their neighbors.

“What’s it called?” she asks.

“ _Brian and Ethel the Pirate’s Daughter_.”

She snorts. “Title needs a little work.”

Marina heads over to a doorway, the oak planks of the backstage floor creaking underneath her. From beyond the frame, she can see every row of seats inside The Whitespire’s house. Her gaze tracks over the dirt yard, where the groundlings stand, and then across the balconies and their boxes. Finally, she lands on the empty stage before her, high off the ground. The math in her head is adding up nicely.

Pete sees her make another motion with her wrist. He slides Josh’s chair away from the brazier altogether. Josh exhales sharply, his eyes raised skyward, thanking some holy figure for his deliverance.

Not taking her eyes off the seats, Marina calls over her shoulder. “Plays take time. You’ll need to find the actors, rehearse, advertise - Pete, get some parchment.” She knows her calculations are perfect, but impressing the men in the room only has its advantages. “If we open in three weeks, then we’ll get five hundred people on the ground, tuppence each. Anyone wants to sit, we charge three pence. That’s easily another four hundred heads. And if they wanna be comfortable, we charge 'em an extra penny for a cushion. We might get two hundred cushions from that, easy. With two performances for safety, that’s twenty pounds even. You keeping up with me, Pete?”

He’s still scribbling on the desk in the corner, but he nods.

“Um,” Josh says.

She pivots on the ball of her foot to stare at him.

He gulps, but he can’t _not_ mention one minor detail. “I have to, you know, pay the actors? And the author?”

Approaching his chair with a few careful steps, she bends down, speaking to him like a child. “You’ll offer them a share of the profits, Mr. Hoberman.”

“But… but there’re never any profits.”

Marina waits.

Josh’s eyes grow wide. Using his sleeve, he wipes the sweat from his brow, and forces a nervous smile. This play won’t just clear away all of his debts with Marina. It’ll make her even more money than she’d get collecting from him alone. She might even be a tad pleased with him, for suggesting the partnership in the first place. So, like the smart man he is, he says, “That’s really, very clever of you, Ms. Andrieski.”

She straightens her spine and holds out her hand. Pete hops up from the desk, handing her both his quill, and the agreement he’s just drafted. She worms the quill in between Josh’s fingers. But she’s not going to release him just yet. A little extra demeaning always keeps her customers in line.

“Sign here,” she says, holding up the blank bottom section of the paper.

Only once Josh starts scratching away, trying to make something like letters, does she give Pete permission to untie the rest of his sorry ass from the chair. “When’s _Brian and Ethel_ gonna be finished?”

Josh keeps his eyes down, so they don’t see him lying through his teeth. “It’s just about done. Coldwater told me so this morning. You know authors, right? Always gotta put in those final touches.”

They swipe the quill away from him the instant he makes the final curve in his name. Then they practically throw him out onto the street.

He’s got a play to produce.

Best get to it, Mr. Hoberman. The day’s just getting started.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An Aside to the Audience: 
> 
> A penny during the Elizabethan Era was roughly the equivalent of about $2 to $2.50 US dollars today. You could buy a loaf of bread with it, or a drink, or any number of everyday things. To put it in perspective of what Josh owes Marina: one whole pound (or one sovereign, or one crown, whichever you prefer) would be roughly $400 US dollars today. That makes Josh's debt around $6400, not to mention the interest he's also accruing as he continues not paying her back. Marina, then, will earn about $8000 from the play, if all goes well.


	2. Act One, Scene One

The apothecary’s couch is too soft. It sinks whenever he moves. There’s too much embroidery, and Quentin hates it. He’s this close to grabbing that candle on the desk, and setting the furniture on fire. That might work. Might inspire something. Might make him feel something, other than dread.

It wasn’t Josh’s fault. Quentin had bumped into him, right as he was leaving his rooms. Josh had begged, just like yesterday, to see something from the new play. His boots looked practically worn through, like he’d been pacing in them for weeks, and he smelled like he’d just popped down to Hell for a quick visit.

A stuttering reassurance had slipped from Quentin’s mouth. The pages were… all locked up, safe in his head! Josh had nothing to worry about. Give him a little time, and he’d have the first scene by the end of the day. He just had to run down to Bacchus’s. Just for a quick top up. So sorry, gotta run, can’t be late for the appointment, you know how it is.

But the pages weren’t merely waiting to be written. They didn’t exist at all. His _ideas_ didn’t exist. His mind was in a fog. He’d spent all morning practicing his damn _signature_ , as if the action itself might jar something loose.

It’s been like this for weeks. This particular trip to the apothecary is the last resort of a beyond-desperate man. Every so often, Quentin shows up to recline on this godforsaken couch. He has a standing appointment in this office – at Josh’s insistence, as a favor – and Quentin does his best not to miss it. He’s supposed to be talking, supposed to tell the apothecary what’s plaguing his spirit these days. Sometimes he leaves with a remedy in his pocket, sometimes he doesn't. That’s how it always goes.

Bacchus slumps down to sit in his chair across from Quentin, sipping a goblet of wine as he waits.

If Quentin mentions the usual, deep, heavy self-loathing again – the “severe melancholic state, from an imbalance of the humours” which Bacchus had diagnosed last year – Quentin knows he’ll just be sent away with a few leeches, or more laudanum. The latter is one of the apothecary’s favorites. Quentin doesn’t like himself when he takes it. Or, well, he doesn’t like himself any _less_ than if he _isn’t_ taking it. It just leaves him with a bitter taste in his mouth, and no desire to do… anything.

Opium sometimes worked. On the worst days. When he misses….

When he misses… T–

When he misses what he’s left behind.

The draught keeps him in such a haze, he’s unable to think, let alone climb out of bed long enough to jump off the Tower Bridge. Or put a knife to his arm. Or down a bottle of arsenic. No matter how much he might want to.

But besides that? Opium costs more than he makes in half a year. He doesn’t get his hands on it too often, and never enough to become dependent on it, thank God. The visions it brings aren’t the kind he needs now anyway. He needs to escape himself, yes, but not in that way. Not today.

He needs to feel the _power_ of words flow through him again. That charged feeling of… of _life_ coursing through his brain and down onto the page. Where the rhythm and the subject matter fit together, intrinsically, like a key in its lock. Where he finds a character he can channel parts of _himself_ into, safely. And then sometimes, even, find the answers. To how he might keep _living his life_.

* * *

[ ](https://yourtinseltinkerbell.tumblr.com/post/630338462297587712/he-needs-to-feel-the-power-of-words-flow-through)

* * *

Right now, that’s _gone_. And he needs it _back_. And who the fuck knows if apothecaries even have a potion for this sort of monstrous crisis.

“Something’sssweighing on you, my friend,” Bacchus says, a little melodically. He offers a friendly smile, swirling the drink around in his cup. His words slur, enough to make Quentin suspect the wine’s laced with a self-indulgent prescription. “I can _see_ it. It’s really, really heavy, huh? Unburden a little. It’ll do you smmm good.”

Well, what does he have to lose?

“It’s like… my ink’s all dried up. Inside," Quentin says. "I pick up my pen every day, but nothing comes out of it. Nothing comes out of _me_. Things used to _flow_. And now they _don’t_.”

Bacchus’s eyebrows rise, and his smile gets wider. He nods. _Keep going, keep going._

Quentin clears his throat, bending forward to extricate himself out of the couch as much as possible. Hope stirs. It feels good to talk. To exorcise this from his heart.

“I’m supposed to write a, fucking, _love_ story. For The Whitespire. The Master of Revels had it closed three months ago, ‘cause of plague rumors. But it’ll probably be opening again soon, and Josh’s desperate. There’s talk Sebastian King has a new play going up at The Blackspire, once the theaters are open again. And I’m supposed to give Josh an _entire new piece_ , so _our_ players’ll quit performing in inn-yards every day.”

His heart begins to thump painfully in his chest, and his back is twinging. The dread from before is unwinding from its tight ball inside him. Pouring out. A stream that’ll become a torrent, if he’s not careful. He clambers off of the sofa and heads to the window, away from Bacchus’s sickly-sweet expression.

“And I want to help him,” he continues. “I do. But he hasn’t even paid me for _The Two Kings of Fillory_ yet, so I gave that to Orloff and the Chamberlain’s Men, because _they_ get invited to court and get paid ten pounds every performance – even though they don’t give me a cut, but at least it got me in their good graces, and they want me as a member – they keep saying so – but I need fifty pounds to buy a share in their company. And to do _that_ , I need to write more, and Josh is upset with me giving them _Two Kings_ in the first place, so I really have to write a good one this time, to kinda, you know, say sorry. But I could also sell it to Kady too, because that’s, you know, actual income. But no matter _who_ gets it, I’m still so… so… _stuck_.”

“Love?” Bacchus says. He’d miraculously managed to follow that whole thread back to its source. “Shit. That’s not. ‘Sssnot easy to–” he belches “–to write about.”

Quentin sighs. He presses his forehead to the cold pane. “I’ve done it before. And it was… pretty good stuff. Stuff I was proud of. I found the words to tell people how it really… is. I showed them love could do anything. Tear down an empire. Build one up. Bind two people together, through... chaos… and calamity. Love is _magic_ , and I can make the magic _real_ when I write about it. The words come to me, and they’re just… _right._ ”

He aches as memories swim before his eyes. His late father had always called it a gift. And his plays always made T… they made _people_ happy. Made them smile. Cry. Wonder at the marvels of the world. Taught them how to be brave.

“Or. At least. That’s how it used to be," he says quietly. "But. Now my gift’s just… gone.”

Bacchus stands, swaying a little as he heads over to his many cabinets of curiosities. “’Kay, so when’s the last time you made love?”

“Are we talking just… uh, bedding someone? Or actually making love? Or… trying, and failing?” asks Quentin. He knows the answer to each of those. He doesn’t know if he has it in him to share. It’d take an actual century for Bacchus to understand, anyway.

The apothecary opens a glass door, pawing through its contents. He takes out little bottles and flasks, filled with rocks and green pastes and black lumps. But they’re not what he’s looking for. “Well, is your _quill_ brok’n?”

“Nooo?”

Now some drawers get yanked open, yielding more bits and bobs. Silver pins. Mouse skulls. An actual live beetle. “Lemme try that again. Is the _organ_ of your imagination still–” Another belch. “Lively?”

Quentin swallows, his cheeks going red. “Pretty much, yeah. I have… inspiration enough.”

“Good. You’ve got a muse then,” Bacchus nods sagely, like he’s checking a crucial item off of some mental list.

Quentin thinks of icy, breathtaking sapphire eyes. Silky blonde hair. A mind much, much sharper than his. A reason to get out of his apartment. A reminder that the world wasn’t so heartless after all. And her _fantastic_ bosom.

“Sure,” he answers. A feeling stirs inside him. One he isn’t going to name.

The search finally bears fruit: a white bracelet, no wider than his palm. Carved out of a young ram’s horn, perhaps, or shaped by spun glass. As Quentin takes it in his hands, he can’t deny its artistry. He returns to the window, enraptured, needing more light, unable to tear his eyes away. There’s always some new, amazing detail every time he blinks.

The sculptor, with the tiniest of tools, had transformed the material into a howling fox. Little jutting pyramids for the ears. Curving grooves dancing along the bushy tail. Blunted, extended claws which would press into the wrist of the wearer. Reminding them, gently, always, of its presence.

“Found it in the ruins of the temple of Pan. In Greece. Or Aphrodite, I think. Very rare find, ‘n any case,” Bacchus says, his chest expanding with pride. He points at the empty air a little to the bracelet’s left, as if he’s seeing double. “So, what you do: get a scrap of paper. Write your name on it. Roll it up ‘til it’s, like, _thin_. Thin as the thinnest of the thinnest twigs. Then stick that right into the enchanted fox’s mouth.”

“And then what?”

Bacchus closes his eyes, reciting like a boy at lessons. “The woman wearing the fox dreams of the giver. An’ then your gift’ll return, and words’ll fill your urn. Like… arrows in a… quiver.” Then he opens his eyes, hiccups, and holds out his hand. A prompt.

Quentin hastily fishes out half a pound’s worth of coins from the pouch on his belt. “It’s really going to bring it back? My gift? My words? They’ll really come back?”

“Well, see if they do. And if not, n’ we need t’ try some’mm else, I’ll see you in a week!”

Bacchus lurches back behind the desk, dropping his earnings into a cash box. Quentin notes he pointedly doesn’t mention any guarantee of a refund, or at least an equal exchange.

All the same, this is something. It’s a start. A spark, which just needs a little air and some kindling. He thanks Bacchus and heads out.

Josh is waiting for him on the storefront’s doorstep. He rocks from one leg to another, easing his aching feet. 

Quentin grimaces with a polite smile. He swerves around him as he charges out into the street, forcing Josh to follow.

“Back to it, huh?” The desperation in his voice is almost a physical weight. One that he purposefully lobs at the back of Quentin’s head. “You get what you need?”

“Not quite,” Quentin says, picking up his pace. He dodges around carts full of cabbages and potatoes as he crosses the cobblestone square. The London air is as thick as ever with rancid smells. The Thames is at low tide again, but Quentin barely notices.

The sun’s come out from its cloud cover. The morning chill’s been banished. The fog rolling off the river is drifting away.

“So where’re we going?” Josh wheezes as he tries to keep up.

“Whitehall Palace.”

No further questions come. Whatever the playwright’s up to, Josh seems to trust it’s necessary. He also knows better than to let the man out of his sight, though, so they go together. The journey doesn’t take too long. In the years they’ve spent here, they’ve both memorized the city’s more crowded byways, and how to avoid them.

Whitehall’s grand edifice looms within the hour. Quentin locates the side entrance, and a bored palace guard waves them in, once Quentin says they’re here to play for the queen. Through the kitchens, around an expansive lawn, and across two different courtyards, they duck into a hallway, crowded with their fellow thespians.

Most of the actors are already in costume. Every swath of bright fabric, from their leg hose to their spotless ruffs and feathered hats, showcases their favoritism at court. They’re paid well to dress their parts. Some apply a final coat of rouge to their lips and cheeks. Others check their props or recite their lines. Josh can recognize the dialogue already. It’s Quentin’s _Two Kings_. Which makes these people the Chamberlain’s Men. Which means Quentin’s wasting his precious time with their rival company?!

Josh stops in his tracks, turning around to demand an answer. But Quentin’s already plunged into a group taking turns peeking through the curtains.

The large auditorium beyond echoes with the voices of courtiers. Servants have lined the smooth, flecked marble floor with mahogany benches, many of which are already occupied by noble ladies. They gossip among their peers, and make a demand or two of their handmaidens. In the far corner, musicians tune their lutes, sound their flutes, and tighten the skins of their drums and tambourines. There’s an energy humming through the audience. Not just from the anticipation of a show – it’s a natural effect of the Queen of England herself.

Julia I – daughter of Henry VIII of the House of Wicker, long may she reign – sits on an elegant throne in the middle of the room. The throne’s on a raised dais, allowing her a principal view of the stage. Her titanic, golden skirts fan about her, like incandescence blazing from a chandelier. She draws attention as a torch might pull a moth at dusk. Her smile is patient, but commanding, as she listens to her subjects. Every so often, one of her remarks earns a titter, or a few whispers, from one of the lords. Out of the corner of her eye, she spots the actors cracking open the curtains, to judge the size of the crowd.

When he accidentally meets her gaze, Quentin quickly retreats back behind the wall of velvet. Breath propels itself out of his lungs.

His work. Performed for Her Majesty. The thought never fails to send him into a tailspin. It’s not the first time she’s seen it; far from it. The queen has Orloff and her Men performing it every fortnight or so, at least.

All the same: will his next piece find its way here too, someday?

Will he even _have_ any “next pieces,” in the days to come?

A gloved hand, descending with the force of a sledgehammer, claps him on the shoulder. Kady Orloff herself, greeting him with a familiarity he’s never sure he deserves. She’s dressed in a gorgeous, moss-green velvet skirt, and matching sleeves. A soft, mint petticoat peeks out from underneath. A grand, ominous cloak spans her shoulders.

“You say hi to Cancer Puppy yet?” she says.

Quentin snorts. The mongrel in question, who’d earned its name twice over (because its owner, Lunk the Clown, would swear by his zodiac fortunes even on his deathbed, and because the little thing didn’t ‘walk’ so much as ‘scuttle sideways’) is usually the first to greet Quentin whenever he pays the Chamberlain’s Men a visit. Since he hasn’t been ambushed yet, he hazards a guess the dog must’ve been taken out for one last piss before curtain. 

Which is, honestly, very good. If he’d been wrestling with an armful of slobbering affection when Kady found him, he knows he wouldn't have the balls to do what he’s about to do next.

“He’ll find me sooner or later,” Quentin shrugs with a smile. He tries to look Kady in the eye as he speaks. “How’s everything here?”

Kady takes her hand away, so she can finish adjusting her stays. She then uses a leather cord to tie her hair back into a neat bun. While she covers it with a maiden’s cap, she answers, “Same old, same old. Some of the guys want you to write a sad one for ‘em. Lunk swears he could pull off a tragedy.”

“You serious?” 

Kady raises an eyebrow. This doesn’t give Quentin much to go off of. Gauging her good humor is always a balancing act. The daughter of a famous actor learns to hide her thoughts well before she learns to walk. 

“He’d get laughs if he was giving a eulogy at a funeral,” Quentin complains. He hopes it’s the right tone she’s looking for. 

And that the sheer panic – of thinking about writing _another_ play, on top of _Brian_ – stays well off his face.

He’s in luck. Kady shakes her head and grins at him. He barrels onward. “Anyway, you still owe me for this one, so-”

That earns him a frown. Before he can back down, a long line of stagehands pushes its way between them. When the tide passes, he sees Kady’s put her hands on her hips. Her voice still has the hint of a smile to it, like _what’s a little debt between friends._

“I mean, you kinda let me steal this one from you,” she says. “I’d say no one owes anyone anything. Plus, I thought you were gonna be joining us soon.”

Now it’s his turn to frown. “Yeah, when I can get _fifty_ pounds.”

“You’re writing now, aren’t you?”

Well, he could. Probably. If someone, perhaps, put a sword to his belly, and threatened to disembowel him on the spot if he didn’t. But beyond that? 

His voice nearly breaks when he says, “Yeah. Hoberman has me doing a pirate comedy. Almost done.”

“Who’s the lead?”

There’s a gleam of interest in Kady’s eyes. Quentin knows she’s loved playing The Watcherwoman ever since he handed her _Two Kings_. She’s probably itching for another role like it.

Not that he’s blasting his own horn about this, but he does make it a point to give women as much power in his plays as he’s legally allowed to. 

“Ethel. She’s a pirate, uh, king’s, uh, daughter. Witty. Good with a sword. And love wins, like always,” he answers. 

God. He’s just said more about the character than he’s actually written, at this point.

But. 

“Yeah, okay, she’s mine,” Kady insists, “and you’re bringing her tomorrow.”

“Can’t,” he says. He’s never gambled this much in his life. He digs his nails into his palm, then crosses his arms. He only has a few cards to play, and he has to play them right. Has to make sure Kady always thinks he has something she wants: his words. They’re how he’s gotten this far in the first place. “It’s going to Margo and the Admiral’s Men.”

“Margo can’t pull that off.”

“I mean, yeah, she can. And Hoberman’s already paid me.”

“How much?”

“Ten pounds.”

“Bullshit,” Kady says. She crosses her arms too, mirroring him. A lock of her hair falls out of her bun, but she ignores it. When Quentin doesn’t budge, she plunges her hand straight down her corset. Quentin yanks his eyes to the ceiling. As if privacy ever meant anything in theatre, but, well, now’s not the time to ogle. Her venture produces two whole sovereigns, and she holds them out to him. “Here’s two. And you’ll have two more when you bring me the pages tomorrow.”

“Hey!”

They both turn at the irritated cry from across the room. Josh, having finally spotted Quentin through the mob, is now marching towards them. He has to weave through three men, dressed as Fillorians, running through their parries for Act Four’s duel. But he certainly hasn’t missed the gleam of gold Kady’s offering. 

“Deal,” Quentin says, and he swipes the money out of her palm. 

Josh arrives a second later. “You’re a shameless thief, Orloff,” he accuses, his eyes following the coins as they disappear into Quentin’s purse. “A poacher in–”

“Um, hardly? Not when you haven’t paid for it yourself yet. And Her Majesty asked for it; _we_ ’re her humble servants,” Kady sniffs, raising her chin. “Plus, the Master of Revels likes us.”

Josh points a finger right in her face. “Whose palms did you have to grease to make that happen?”

“If you wanna make him a better offer, he’s right over there.” Kady shamelessly sends a wave over their heads. 

Penny Adiyodi, Master of Revels, has pushed one of the curtains aside. The various medallions and chains around his neck, all signs of his responsibilities to the throne, clink as he steps backstage and looks around. When he catches sight of Kady, he scoffs, jerking his head to summon her over. Kady rolls her eyes at him. If Quentin didn’t know better, he’d say the expression was almost fond. Like a stormy sea’s predilection for a cliffside.

She takes a step away from them, heading in Penny’s direction. Then she catches Quentin’s sleeve at the last second. “You haven’t seen Alice yet, have you? My cloak’s a little loose.”

Of all the fucking questions. He gulps and shakes his head. 

“Damn. If you see her before my cue, send her over.”

He nods, and Kady pats him – well, she smacks him, but with affection – before she leaves to chat with Penny.

“You don’t happen to have any paper, do you?” Quentin asks Josh, once she’s out of earshot. He fiddles with the white fox in his purse. His eyes dart from one corner of the room to the other, looking for Kady’s seamstress.

Who also happens to be her mistress.

And Quentin’s.

“Why?” Josh asks.

“I need to write something.”

Josh perks up. Any writing is writing. Problem is, he doesn’t just carry things like that around. If he did, Marina’d probably just repossess them from him too. Thankfully, he spies an abused script on the prop table. And he’s not above getting a little revenge.

A trumpet sounds, quieting the audience. The musicians strike up, and Kady marches out onto the stage, bowing to Queen Julia. All that noise is enough to drown out Josh tearing off a section, and handing it to his playwright. He even finds a stick of kohl to write with.

Quentin puts the paper against the wall and writes his name, ignoring Josh’s scowl when he sees this. As Act One begins, his old words, brought to life through Kady’s voice, echo around him. They thunder in his head, casting their old spell. That rhythm, like his own heartbeat, calling to him from the past. Reminding him of its absence, with every stressed and unstressed syllable.

He crosses the last “t” and takes out the bracelet. The little paper, all rolled-up, slides right into the fox’s mouth, just as a pair of blue, gossamer sleeves descend around his shoulders. They embrace him tenderly. The smell of lilies fills his nose.

Alice puts her forehead against the back of his skull. “When am I getting my sonnet, Q?” she murmurs, planting a kiss into his hair.

That feeling, the one he refused to name in the apothecary, returns. Grows. His anxiety bleeds out of his shoulders. He breathes with her, just for a moment.

It wasn’t so long ago, the last time he’d been in her arms. He’d climbed back up her body, the taste of her sharp in his mouth as she released her grip on his hair. He’d settled beside her, and they'd gasped for air together, their legs entwined, sweat drying between them. With a childish, exhausted grunt, he kicked the blankets to the floor, and she laughed at him. He laughed too, just a little. His first in weeks.

As the quiet returned, she traced a featherlight touch across his scalp. Soothed the locks she’d ruthlessly pulled. The moonlight bathed her naked breasts in silver. He wasn't able to rise for her that night. But that didn't meant he couldn’t please her. And oh, she was _so_ pleased.

Such peace. He hadn’t felt it in ages. Nothing clouded his broken brain but bliss.

After a while, they started to talk. About… about alchemists, right? About people trying to find immortality through science – as opposed to spirituality, or tales of great deeds, or by living on in someone’s memories. She led most of the conversation. Quentin didn't have much experience with the former, only the latter. All too well. And he wasn't ready to tell her. To explain why he needed to put more faith in, well, faith, these days. And to guard, and cherish, the power of memories.

They kept T… _a person_ alive in his heart, as long as that heart kept beating. So he couldn’t quite agree with her.

But he'd been happy to listen to her voice. To hear the sound logic of her argument. She had her own way with words. It filled his emptiness. He realized, that night, that he was almost ready. To tell her. To tell her everything.

He pivots now, catching her in his arms. Her surprised giggle rings like sleigh bells in winter. He waits for his brain to come up with something more. Lyrics, metaphors, anything. But that was all. Just the faint simile of bells.

Alice sees his face fall. Her hand, callused from so much needlework, cups his cheek. A silent question.

He shakes his head. He wants to draw her close, but he can’t. Not with the company around him. Actors see everything. He clears his throat pointedly at Josh. The man’s expression says about a million things, but he takes the hint, and makes himself scarce.

Quentin tries to keep his voice low. He looks down at the fox bracelet in his hands. “I’ve… I’ve lost my gift,” he admits to Alice. “Don’t know if any sonnets’re coming for a while.”

Her expression clouds with worry. Until she bites her lip and teases, “Maybe you left it in my bed. Why don’t you come look for it later?”

His heart races. He raises his head, and catches her eye. She keeps him there.

Being wanted. It’s practically a cure in of itself.

He curls one side of his mouth up into a half smile, trying to project confidence, like he had with Kady. Only this time, there’s less uncertainty running rampant inside him. And there’s much more… _something_. “Are you my… my muse, Alice?”

She purses her lips. One of her sculpted eyebrows rises, and she leans forward. “I’ve told you,” she whispers, with a flirtatious smirk, “I don’t belong to anyone.”

Oh God, is it true? She might be leaving Kady after all? He tries to tamper this overwhelming _soaring_ feeling. Then again, how can you ground a bird once its broken wings have healed?

Everyone else has their eyes and ears trained on the auditorium. Waiting for the queen to laugh. The coast is clear. He reaches down, lifting Alice’s arm, and he slides the white bracelet around her wrist. Her eyes light up at the gift. She traces over the fox’s head with a finger. Before he can blink, she’s backing him against the wall and kissing him. She nips at his lip, palming his cock through his breeches. He starts to kiss her back. He brings his arms around her waist, but a loud cough erupts in the auditorium. And when the queen coughs, everyone else at court must cough too. They miss The Watcherwoman’s pun about talking woodpeckers. Startled, Quentin jerks his head away.

The cacophony dies around them. He checks the hallway again, but they’re safe. Kady isn’t meant to exit this scene for another ten minutes. Still, he’d better make himself scarce. He doesn’t know what he’ll do if he stays. And, maybe, he’s got enough fire in his veins now, to run home and put ink to paper.

He looks down at Alice in apology, and she huffs, understanding. He smiles, and kisses her brow. “I’ll come find you soon,” he promises. As he moves to go, he trails his fingers down her arm, just as she had with him, the other night. She squeezes his hand before he releases her.

Lunk almost bowls him over then, running in to get ready for his entrance. In his wake is Cancer Puppy, who practically leaps into Quentin’s arms. Before Lunk can even think to ask about that tragedy he wants, Quentin shoves Cancer Puppy back at him, and propels him away. He’s about to miss his cue, isn’t he? Lunk pales, and Alice turns the man towards her, to make a final check on his costume. She doesn’t meet Quentin’s eye as he tries for one last glance, but that’s fine. He should go find Josh anyway.

And he does, a few minutes later. The manager’s commandeered a spot in the eaves of the auditorium. It offers a diagonal view of the stage and the audience. He crosses his arms as Kady finishes her last line. She chases a Fillorian off stage, her hood lowered and her dreaded TimePiece swinging. Quentin sidles up to Josh, drawn to the action, even though he knows it like the back of his hand.

Now Lunk totters on stage, bemoaning The Beast that hounds him. Cancer Puppy trots up from behind. His happy bark makes Lunk whimper in fear.

Queen Julia laughs at that. The rest of the crowd copies her.

“See?” Josh notes, a little snidely. He shifts on his sore feet.

Quentin shoots him a questioning look.

Lunk runs Cancer Puppy through their routine. The giant man, terrorized by the sweetest creature. The Beast steals a slipper from the clown’s feet, then nuzzles his leg with his snout. The giant cowers, falling to the floor and begging for mercy. There’s genuine laughter from the crowd now. Cancer Puppy yips, finding his favorite ball in Lunk’s pocket, desperate to play. He performs a few tricks with it, then winds his leash around Lunk’s legs and trips him as he tries to rise. Then The Beast ambushes him, licking his face joyously. Lunk calls it torture, and the crowd roars.

“Love, and a bit with a dog,” Josh says. “That’s all they want. Not so hard, right?”

Another round of laughter booms around them.

“Well done!” Julia calls, her mouth a bit full. She’s snacking on a plate of thin carrots from the kitchen. With a kind, underhanded toss, she rolls one of the carrots down the aisle. Cancer Puppy dashes away from Lunk and snaps it up. Lunk bows about fifty times at the throne, scoops the dog up, and lets the curtain swallow him.

The crowd settles down as the young man playing Rupert enters for the next scene. He’s already started his monologue, debating whether the holy Torrent nearby can heal him. Quentin gnaws at his lip, right where Alice had nipped it, sending a flare of pain through his brain on purpose.

He’d managed to perfect Rupert’s speech after only an hour’s work. The words ring hollow in his ears now. The audience never learns what, or who, is causing Rupert’s pain. Quentin’d written it that way on purpose. Its ambiguity was something he’d needed, desperately, at the time. It’d been crucial to lock a part of his heart away. To shelter himself from a gale of sorrow. If he’d tried to use words to express any of it, he would’ve been swallowed whole.

So he’d relied on just the right amount of allegory, and it worked. Rupert muddles through whether he should drink the water – to let something else, something not entirely natural, fix him. Rather than waiting for his body and spirit to fix themselves. So he’ll be able to feel again, think again. Love again. Above all, he wants to love again.

The actor playing Rupert pauses, considering the invisible water. “What light is light, if one’s soul be not here?” he asks. “What joy is joy, if my heart’s purpose dies? Unless it be to think this pure liquid, not I, can drain this wound. Cleanse it. Heal it. Convince me love waits along my new path?”

In the end, Rupert does choose to drink. Then he feels better, and discovers he has the strength to save his brother and the kingdom. All after some vague words. Each one mere decoration, with no specifics to ground it in reality. Huzzah.

Quentin, though, needs to write about passion now. The kind that leads to making rash decisions. Decisions which - even if they are hindered by chaotic events - will actually lead to happiness. It’s worked before. He’s ready for it to work again. He is. And it’ll be different this time. It _will_ end differently; he can _feel_ it. Like a line of ants trailing down into their colony, the urge to get a quill in his hand prickles through him. Maybe the white fox is already working.

The queen yawns, and he doesn’t blame her. Most of the audience yawns too. Even Quentin almost caves in.

Until he catches sight of one man, who doesn’t. This one just… really can’t tear himself away from Rupert's speech, can he?

Is he… is he _mouthing_ the words?

Quentin narrows his eyes. The man’s sitting in the fourth row on the right; it’s hard to make him out. He’s unshaven, with prickly black stubble covering his entire jaw. But his beard and moustache aren’t "unkempt" so much as "artfully disheveled." His curls are longer than the current style. He’s slicked them back, to keep all but one strand in place, and this last tuft rests almost mockingly on his forehead. His doublet, tunic, and even the flair on his breeches are all a fantastic, warm, buttercream color, pin-pricked with silver clasps and pearl nobs. A peach-colored cape is draped over his lap. The ensemble’s a stark contrast to all that dark hair shrouding his face.

Behind him, a younger fellow, dressed in a manservant’s leather jerkin with equally curly brown hair, leans forward to whisper in the bearded man's ear. He waves him away, a silent scolding, and goes back to quietly reciting the monologue.

How? How can he be getting something from this?

Quentin can’t bear to watch. As soon as the audience claps, he departs, not waiting to see if Josh follows. The sun hits him right in the face as he escapes the palace. It warms the fabric of his jacket. He trudges back to his loft with his teeth clenched, and his skin hot.

With every step, he tells himself he will _not_ get anything from that image. No. _N_ _o_. Definitely not. Some lord, mouthing a speech on ambiguous love? No! There’s nothing in that! Nothing in someone eating up words that hide twice as much as they reveal.

It’s like Quentin has _deceived_ him. Given him false guidance. If Quentin lets that image stay in his mind, he’ll only feel doubt settle over him again.

Back in his rooms, he strikes a match. The candle wick licks up the flame, and he waves the taper out. He sits at his desk, and picks up his quill. He’s not going to write ‘a bit with a dog,’ he knows. But he’s not going to write about magic healing waters, either. He’s got Alice. Clever, beautiful, radiant Alice. Her laugh. Her encouragement. The new beginnings they’ll share together.

She’s no Ethel. She’s herself. And he’ll show her to the world.

He dips the nib into the inkpot. He waits. Calms his breathing. Lets the world fall away. Listens to the beat of his heart. And. Yes.

Yes.

_Fucking yes!_

Brian is a– And Ethel...no, Alice , is– and, shit! These ideas are coming fast! Because the pirates can still be there, sure. But they _actually_ symbolize leaving things behind. Leaving the world you know behind. Leaving a person’s entire past behind. And the freedom that that can bring, to Brian, when he meets his Alice, and–

The dam breaks. And the words _flow_ out again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An Aside to the Audience: 
> 
> Kady's last name is only "Orloff" because the hyphenation of last names wasn't done during this time period. It's also a re-nod of sorts to the original Amanda Orloff in the books. She was the best of the Second Years and helped Quentin when Professor March was being a bit of a dick. 
> 
> Admittedly, women were not allowed to act on stage until the early 1660s. I decided, with Julia as the queen in my version of history, she'd give women as many rights as she could get away with, like the right to own a business, own a home, etc. This decision also remedied how much of a sausage-fest _Shakespeare in Love_ actually is. 
> 
> Lunk and Cancer Puppy are an homage to Launce the Clown from _The Two Gentlemen of Verona_. I kid you not, that character has a dog named Crab. It was too perfect. I will admit Cancer Puppy and Crab do have opposite personalities, of course, as Crab is referred to as "the sourest-natured dog that lives." (II.iii.5-6)
> 
> Also, I use "theater" when referring to the physical building, while "theatre" is for the art form itself, just so we get that out of the way now.


	3. Act One, Scene Two

Quentin writes well into the night. He pauses only a few times. When he needs to light a few more candles. When he begins a new page. When he has to replace his quill, after the nib snaps. Other than that, he flies.

Across the river, down along its bends, and into the English countryside, there sits a manor house, built almost right along the shoreline. One of its high balconies is alight in the darkness, haloed by the blaze from a fire inside. Eliot Waugh moves through the doorway, to stare at the stars. It’s been an hour since he’s returned home. His father, mercifully, has fallen right into bed, thanks to the three-bottles’-worth of wine he’s consumed tonight. His mother, Eliot supposes, is probably reading her Bible by candlelight.

In theory, he should be asking Todd to help him undress. But the elation of seeing the play this afternoon – a Coldwater play! – still hums in his veins. He does technically make some progress. By slipping a single ring off his finger. And then he stares at the sky some more. Rupert’s words wind through his head. He takes off another ring.

Todd clears his throat behind him.

“Fine,” Eliot sighs. He goes back inside.

Todd shuts the balcony door and becomes a flurry of motion. He unhooks the clasp, and Eliot’s ruff comes undone. Off slides his doublet, tunic, and breeches. As he sheds each layer, there’s less keeping his joy in check.

“Okay, honest opinion?” Eliot says.

“Sir?” Todd’s a little distracted. He’s trying to stack up every piece in his arms, so he can take the whole lot over to the wardrobe in one trip.

“Which actor would you take it from, in a back alley: Martin, or the clown?”

“Take it from, sir?”

“If I elaborate, you’ll just drop all my things on the floor.”

The butler nearly does, once he realizes his meaning. Eliot snorts.

“Umm. I. Uh. Which…. I mean, I…”

“Mother of God. You’re lucky I’m merciful.” Eliot starts toeing off his heels, and he begins to roll down his hose. “How ‘bout this: which actor did you like, from a _purely aesthetic_ standpoint?”

“The dog.”

Eliot widens his eyes. 

“No! I mean. It. It made me laugh! I liked it ‘cause I laughed!” Todd bleats. He’s not unlike a lamb. One that's tied up outside a butcher’s stall.

Eliot rubs his brow in disbelief. He inhales, and–

“Please don’t, sir,” Todd begs. He wobbles over to the wardrobe, before his employer can verbally smite him further. “You know me. I’m more of a Watcherwoman guy.”

“Yes, I’m aware.”

“I’m guessing Rupert didn’t, uh, appeal to you at all, this time?”

Eliot lets the distraction work. “Ugh,” he says. “He didn’t even know what he was saying! He was just… saying it!” He heads over to his jewelry box, tossing his rings inside.

Todd takes out a cotton nightgown, draping it over one shoulder so he can bring it over later. He folds Eliot's flared breeches into a drawer. “Isn’t that what actors, you know, do?”

“Not with Coldwater’s words, you don’t,” Eliot retorts. He’s not sure whether the question’s genuine, or just plain cheeky.

The whole point of a play is to _hear_ it. To _see_ it. You can read a script all day, feel the words hit dead center in your heart, again and again, as many times as you like. But watching how they affect a fellow human being? And then, once you see that effect, being able to say to yourself, “yes, it’s like that for me too,” and “oh, I’m not alone after all?” To Eliot, nothing comes close to that. Nothing can compare. 

Thomas Kyd’s _The Spanish Tragedy_ unnerves him, sure, but the prose’s power is undeniable when Margo Hanson wields it like a battle axe on stage. Margo is always unrelenting in her performances. Both on herself, and on her audience. 

And Eliot’s also seen a Sebastian King play or two. He prefers his _Edward II_ to _Doctor Faustus,_ for _obvious_ reasons, but he knows they’ll last the test of time. Orloff and the Chamberlain’s Men usually have King at their beck and call. The author coaches them all on the themes, the objectives of the characters, and that crucial diction, in case they dare forget.

Coldwater, though, has something that none of the others do. His hope. 

His monologues, his dialogue. The incredible coincidences that the characters _successfully_ struggle their way out of. They all capture the _possibility_ of love, like no one else has managed to yet. 

“If you say so.”

“I do,” Eliot says. “The man who played Rupert today didn’t _get_ it. I don’t know what Orloff was thinking, casting him for that part. Coldwater chose Rupert to talk about love for a reason. Not Martin, or the clown, or anyone else. And he’s not just talking about the slapped-together, man-and-wife, hooray-we’ve-restored-status-quo kind. Or that pious shit in those _Everyman_ dramas. He’s talking about the kind that…” Eliot swallows.

Todd slows. He knows what he wants to say. The house is still quiet. Eliot's parents are out of earshot. No one will hear if he… if he encourages his friend to cease guarding his heart for one moment. “The kind that, what?” he asks. 

It takes a little while. Eliot almost doesn’t say it. He combs his fingers through his curls, loosening them. Over at the basin by the mirror, he splashes his face with cold water.

“The kind that... misses you, when you’re gone,” he says, staring at his reflection. “The kind that accepts you, for who you really are. The kind that doesn’t insist _you_ fix yourself, or insist that you have to be what everyone tells you to be, in order to be loved. The kind that doesn’t kill you for loving who you want to love.” He sniffs. Hides his face behind a towel as he pats his beard dry. “Stage love’s never going to reflect real love – doesn’t matter if it’s familial or romantic – if companies keep hiring actors who aren’t willing to take Coldwater’s words, and _go there_.”

The sound of crickets from outside falls around them. Eliot sees through the mirror that Todd has bowed his head, and his shoulders’re stiff.

Damnit. This isn’t how he wants to end the day. “So, when do we get to see another one?” he says lightly.

Todd jerks at the sudden contradiction. “When the queen commands it?”

“Or we can just go to the playhouse,” he grins.

Todd rounds on him. “Playhouses aren’t for the high-born, sir.”

“And I’m not high-born.”

“But your family has the money. Enough to buy themselves a title.” He returns to Eliot’s side, handing over the nightgown so Eliot can shuck off his underclothes. “And your father says that high-born sons need to–” He stops himself.

Eliot offers the man a forgiving, long-suffering grimace. “Go on. I only need to be reminded every day or so.” When Todd doesn’t continue, Eliot prods him. “Out with it. I know you’re only looking out for me.”

Apologetically, Todd repeats, “High-born sons have to appeal to the families of high-born ladies.” He clears his throat, wincing and cracking one eye open to gauge Eliot’s reaction. “I only brought it up ‘cause… I noticed Lady Fen staring at you today. Like, the whole time. She barely even blinked.” Todd shudders at the memory.

Eliot takes the omen for what it is. No man at his age stays a bachelor forever. Certainly not one whose father is determined to have descendants. Grandchildren who will be lords not only in name, but in blood.

Never mind that the idea of taking a wife – and having children – paralyzes Eliot with equal amounts of dread.

Sharing the rest of his life with someone. Someone who may _never_ understand why he’d rarely willingly lie with her.

And, if he never touches her, then his father might just be enough of an evil bastard to get the marriage annulled, ruin the girl’s prospects, and force his son to marry all over again.

So, in that vein, say Eliot does eventually force himself to lie with his wife? Then, he’d be responsible for bringing a whole new life into the world. And that child would be used for Sir Waugh’s ambitions, just as Eliot was.

All Eliot will be able to hope for, until death mercifully comes for him, is what he has now: a few escapes into the city every few months. Where he manages a quick fuck in some brothel, or an anonymous cock down his throat behind a tavern. Nothing more.

Why the hell is it so wrong, so damnable, for Eliot to want someone to _love_ him. A love that doesn’t have to stay secret. That isn’t governed by anything or anyone. Not the church, or England’s laws, or the opinions of his fellow men. Love that is, at its core, an utter _riot_ in the heart. All-consuming, come ruin or rapture. Love like there’s never been before. That plays could only _dream_ of imitating.

But he’ll never get that. Something that good’ll never happen to him. And, if he's being honest with himself, he knows exactly why. Especially not if his father takes Eliot’s marriage bed into his own hands. Which he’s sure to do any day now. If he hasn’t already, considering Lady Fen’s attention.

The thought sends renewed panic down his spine. He decides he’s done being awake for the day. His joy from _The Two Kings of Fillory_ is all but gone. He yanks up the down comforter, and dramatically collapses onto his four-poster bed. “Bank the fire for me, will you?” he mumbles from his pillow. “Maybe I’ll find some happiness in my dreams. And there’ll be so much of it, I’ll never want to wake up again.”

Todd nearly tries to say more. They’ve been constant companions since they were boys. He may never comprehend some parts of Eliot’s soul, to be sure, but he believes no one could ever deserve a life filled with misery. Especially his friend.

And yet, the power to change any of it is utterly out of his hands. All he can do now is wish him a good night, and go over to the fireplace. Do as he’s told, like always.

It’s not until he’s blown out the last candle that he hears Eliot abruptly sit up in bed.

“You okay, sir?”

“My days as a bachelor are numbered.”

When he doesn’t elaborate, Todd just goes “Mm hmm?”

Because, based on that tone? One Todd knows all too well? Eliot’s cooking up a scheme. And he’s not sure if he should be relieved, since the man’s mood has shifted… or scared out of his wits.

“I should get to have… one last romp, right?” Eliot continues.

“Suuure?”

“I should have some adventure of my own. Take a sip of that Torrent for myself. Get at least as close to love as I can. Even if it’s just for show.”

If Todd could see through the gloom, he’d witness a slow, toothy grin stretching across Eliot’s face. And the persistent way he’s rubbing his chin with one hand.

“Yep. That settles it. I’ll need a shave tomorrow. And get out my oldest, ugliest clothes. And a hat.”

“For… what, exactly?”

“Oh, don’t worry about it. The less you know, the better.” And with that, Eliot buries himself beneath his blankets, sighing happily and saying nothing more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An Aside to the Audience:
> 
> Thomas Kyd's _The Spanish Tragedy_ established the "revenge play" as a genre in theatre. _Hamlet_ actually shares a number of similarities with it. Feel free to give the Wikipedia article on _The Spanish Tragedy_ a read one day, if you're ever down that particular internet rabbit-hole.
> 
> Rupert Chatwin is a character within Quentin's plays in this 'verse. Sebastian King, on the other hand, is the same person as Dark King Sebastian introduced in Season 5 - although please feel free to imagine your own Sebastian. Matthew Goode is always a fine choice, personally. Ben Whishaw actually plays Sebastian in the 2008 _Brideshead Revisited_ , as an alternative. How Rupert and Sebastian King are connected in this story is explained later. For historical context, Seb is basically Christopher "Kit" Marlowe, another playwright of Shakespeare's time. If you're not that familiar with Marlowe, and if you suspect I'm going to base Seb's life on his, then you'd best avoid reading up about Marlowe if you don't want any spoilers, darlings. Marlowe's _Edward II_ is free game, though. 
> 
> _Everyman_ is one of the few dramas the church actually endorsed back then: a morality play. It tells the story of a character named Everyman, an audience surrogate who learns how to give up worldly possessions and relationships in order to get his soul ready to go to heaven.


	4. Act One, Scene Three

The next morning, while he’s on his way to the tavern for a late breakfast, Josh finds himself staring at the cobbler’s sign above his shop. He counts the weeks in his head. Maybe four, or five? Yeah, five, ‘til he can afford a new gently-used pair.

“Hoberman!”

He freezes, but two rough hands tug him backward. Behind him, Marina growls, “This time, your feet are going in without your boots!”

Pete’s got him by the lapels of his jacket now, and he’s propelled into a nearby wall.

“What’d I do?!” he shrieks. He puts his hands up in surrender. 

Marina’s furious scowl is inches from his nose. “You failed to mention that the Master of Revels closed every goddamn theater in London! Because of the plague!”

Oh. Yeah. Well, in his defense, he thought everyone knew that. His face breaks into a calm, borderline patient smile. Somehow, this throws Pete off his game, and his grip loosens. Even Marina takes a step away.

“Can I explain a little something to you?” Josh says, his hands still raised. “About how things go, when you’re in theatre?”

Pete looks to Marina for directions. She sinks into an impatient stance, but she doesn’t refuse him, or threaten to take it out on his body. That’s a start.

Josh smiles even wider. “It’s completely natural for things to go wrong. Expected, even. Everything that can go wrong, does.” He scratches his head, like it’s all entirely out of his hands. Leaning back against the wall, he stares up at the sky almost wistfully. “It’s one obstacle after another, the whole time. And you’re always on the road to, like, _imminent_ disaster.”

Marina shifts her weight to her other leg. She crosses her arms. He’s got her attention now. Either she’s genuinely dumbfounded, or she’s a very good actress. If she’s got something else up her sleeve, he can’t tell.

“So what do you do?” she says.

“Nothing!” he says. “It all works out in the end. Every time!”

Pete tilts his head. A bull, whose red target has suddenly vanished. “How?”

Josh shrugs. “I dunno. It’s a mystery.”

At that moment, a _clang-clang-clang_ goes off at the top of the street. A crier has planted himself on a crate, cupping his hand over his mouth as he rings his bell and announces, “The theaters are open! By order of the Master of Revels! The theaters are open again!”

The grip on Josh’s shirt slackens completely. Pete and Marina both stare, open-mouthed, at the crowd gathering around the messenger.

Josh takes this as good a time as any to, politely, pinch one of Pete’s hands and lift it off his jacket. “You mind?” he asks, humbly bowing his head, asking permission to be on his way again. Neither of them move to stop him. He ducks around the corner. His stars might not be against him after all. At least, not today. The urge to whistle rises in his chest.

His relief is short-lived, once Marina charges back around the corner. She shouts, “Where’re your auditions happening, then?”

“At The Whitespire!” he replies, fixing that smile back on his face. “Going to get the script now!”

And oh, is he going to get it. If he has to take a page out of Marina’s book and tie his playwright to a desk himself, so be it.

The streets aren’t too crowded, this time of day. It doesn’t take him more than five minutes to plot the route to Quentin’s place. It _does_ take him all of five _seconds_ spot Quentin sprinting down the road, his long brown hair billowing behind him. A stack of pages flaps about in one of his hands, like a disgruntled hen being brought back to its coop after a long-planned escape.

At that pace, he looks ready to blow past Josh altogether.

“Hey!” he calls out, trying to stop him. “You hear that the theaters–”

“ _Brian and Alice_ , Scene One!” Quentin says, waving it in triumph. “It’s back, Josh! It’s back!” 

He blitzes away, rounding the corner long before he can hear Josh say anything. Josh finds himself stuck; unsure whether to ask "What's back?" or “Don’t you mean _Brian and Ethel_?”, or to shout that he’s running in the wrong direction. All he manages in the end is a pointless wave.

Meanwhile, Quentin, like a hawk free of its hood, dives through the streets unhindered, straight towards Kady Orloff’s house. She’d paid in advance to get the scene this morning, and he isn’t going to keep her waiting. He pushes her front door open and heads for the stairs. “Kady!” he shouts, looking for her in the kitchen, in case she’s at breakfast.

No sign. He continues up the stairs to the second floor.

He’ll get his next two sovereigns here, stop somewhere for a bite to eat, and then run back to his rooms to keep writing. He feels like he’s on fire. Scene Two’s right there, right in the fore of his imagination. He knows exactly where the story’s going next.

“Kady!” he tries again, this time outside her study. No one’s there, either, not even Alice.

Right, maybe they’re still asleep. He runs down the hall, bursting in through the bedroom door and–

And Penny’s there. The Master of Revels himself.

“Penny? I–”

But. He’s... tucking his cock back into his underclothes. And buttoning up his breeches.

And on the bed.

Is. 

Alice. On all fours. She’s propped herself up on one hand, while she tucks her breasts back into her corset with the other. There are reddened imprints on them, and on her bare hips. Like hands. And she’s smiling like a siren.

They both turn their heads to stare at Quentin, who’s turned to stone on the doorstep. His fist crumples the pages in his grip.

Penny clears his throat, and he finishes his last button. “Yeah, she wasn’t home when I got here, either,” he says. He raises an eyebrow and smirks at him. As if they’re sharing an inside joke.

Alice pushes her skirt back down. She reorients on the blankets, crossing her legs and draping her hair behind her bare shoulders. She isn’t even avoiding his gaze. Her cheeks are flushed, sure, but she’s no more anguished or ashamed than those stoic portraits in the palace gallery.

Quentin had caught only a few hours of sleep this morning. He’s still in yesterday’s clothes, with dark circles under his eyes. He can see the moment that Alice notices. Finally, some worry appears on her face. If there’s any satisfaction in that, he doesn’t feel it. He’s recalled something Kady mentioned yesterday.

“She said the Chamberlain’s Men has your favor,” he remarks to Penny distantly. “I’m. I’m guessing this is why.”

Alice’s eyebrows crease, and she crosses her arms. Like _she’s_ displeased with _him_ for the implication.

Quentin’s thoughts are careening out of control. He’s a ship with no sail, and no rudder, and the storm’s found him all over again.

“Tell Kady she’s lost my play,” he tells Alice. He takes a step back, making for the door.

She opens her mouth, but Penny gets there first. While he bends down, retrieving his jerkin from the floor, he says, “Hey, uh, just as a heads up? She’s not gonna care.” He shuffles back and taps the bedroom window with his finger. “She’s getting The Blackspire ready for a Sebastian King play right now.”

Though numbness is crowding inside him, Quentin does manage to feel a modicum of surprise at this. “You opened the theaters again?” he says, “I thought. With the plague–”

“I mean,” Penny shrugs, “I had to do something to help get her out of the house again. Closing the theaters was like caging the bear, y’know? Even with the plays at court, she felt cooped up all the time.” He looks at Alice, smirks fondly, and then glances back at him. “We’ve all got needs, right?”

As if he was doing Kady a favor, plague be damned. As if Alice was the one who’d _needed_ him here. And Penny was here doing _her_ a favor. The three of them, one big happy–

That’s all Quentin can stand. He backs out of the room, dipping his head down into something like a bow. Still a man of manners, for some fucking reason. His fingernails pierce holes in the parchment in his hand. The words will smear all over his fingers. It’s a fitting image. The ink blotting him, staining him.

Through the hall, back the way he came, he’s halfway down the stairs when he hears a pair of bare feet padding behind, chasing him down.

“Q,” Alice says, stopping him short.

He wants to rage. He really does. But he also wants to weep. He thinks of turning around, of sinking to his knees, right here on the stairs, and wrapping his hands around her waist. Begging for an explanation. Begging her to hold him. His breath comes stuttering out through his nose. He pushes his hair out of his eyes.

She puts a hand on his back. “Q.”

His legs are shaking. They almost fold beneath him, as he takes another step down. “You weren’t… you weren’t using me, were you?”

“No,” she says. And it’s so genuine. So concerned. “Hey, look at me.”

He can’t. “You sure?” he asks, wishing his voice didn’t sound so dead. So pathetic. Wishing he could stop the vitriol pouring from his mouth. He knows it’s not fair to her, but he still ends up sneering, “You sleep with me; I give Kady my plays. You fuck Adiyodi, and he–”

“I thought you understo–”

“–opens the playhouses, and I thought you were leaving her, that’d we’d be together and–”

She crosses her arms and interrupts, “Did you forget already? I’ve told you. I don’t belong to anyone. Not Penny, not Kady, and not you.”

That finally gets him to turn, even though his face is contorting, and he’s scared he’ll start crying. “I never said you belong–”

“I’m not some kept woman, Q,” she says to him. Her voice is even. Stern, but not unkind. “Asking me to be your muse is flattering. It is. But I think you want something from me that I can’t give.”

* * *

[ ](https://yourtinseltinkerbell.tumblr.com/post/630338487011442688/she-crosses-her-arms-and-interrupts-did-you)

* * *

A single tear springs loose from one of his eyes. His chest is a collapsing star. His mouth opens, but he can’t even breathe, let alone say more. He’d been so wrong. Thinking he was ready to tell her about…. That she’d accept him when he said… and then they’d…

She blinks a few times. Tightens the shawl she’s wrapped around herself. Her eyes drop, and she takes him in again, from his windswept hair to his dirty hands.

Quiet falls around them. Until she spies a pale stretch of skin on one of his fingers, and her face softens. Her hand cups his cheek, just as it had in Whitehall Palace. The white fox bracelet still adorns her wrist.

“The way you love is different than I do,” she murmurs. “We can keep doing this. I’d like that. I like _you_. I like talking with you, and spending time with you. But if we keep seeing each other, it’s only going to work if you understand, truly, that you’re not mine. And I’m not yours.”

He knows his answer. He still has to say it, though. The words make it real, right?

“Goodbye, Alice,” he says. He leaves the house, not even bothering to close the door behind him.

Everyone else outside is going about their day. Running errands. Peddling wares. Stopping inside the door of an alehouse, to hear a bard’s song. He hates it all, just like Bacchus’s couch, and the uneven cobblestones, and the shit in the streets and the sun in the sky and the fact that he was _stupid_ enough to think that good things could still happen to him. That his problems would miraculously fix themselves. That he could find meaning and fucking _love_ in his life again.

A blacksmith’s stall is nearby, closed for lunch. Quentin crushes _Brian and Alice_ , one page at a time, into little balls. He makes a game of chucking them into the forge, one by one. He swears he hears a child laugh somewhere nearby, but he doesn’t turn to look. He can’t. Each page takes a good, long while to burn. He watches every last one transform into crumbling, curled cinders. He wants to crawl into the nearest tankard, and never come out again.

The closest, cheapest tavern he finds is, unfortunately, full of familiar faces. Before he can leave, Tick Pickwick, local pawn broker and sometime stage-keeper, claps him on the shoulder, steering him towards the bar. And once he’s there, the rest of his neighbors crowd around.

Quentin knows he’s not going to be good company. He really should try and duck out now, while he still can.

Fuck. Josh is rubbing elbows with a few players on the other side of the room.

And Quentin’s just tossed the only thing that would make Josh happy with him into a hot forge. God _fucking_ damnit.

Tick asks him a question. Quentin misses it entirely. Josh has, of course, seen him by now, and he’s excused himself to run over and clap him on the shoulder.

“Heya! Finished the scene yet?” Josh says. Quentin can tell someone’s treated him to at least two beers already.

Well. Since it’s become a habit at this point:

“Yep, and nearly finished the next scene, too,” he croaks. Josh full-on hugs him. Quentin begs the earth to crack open and swallow him whole.

Good thing Quentin’s had as much experience with acting as he has writing plays. He came to London as an actor first, long before they asked him to put pen to paper. He twists out of the embrace and taps Tick on the arm. “You’ve gotta have a part, Tick! Been, um, too long since you were on stage, huh?” he says, forcing a big smile.

It’s always unnervingly easy. Playing the happy, optimistic author. Because shoving every self-hating thought aside isn’t hard – so long as you’re doing something you’ll hate yourself even more for later.

He makes a show of craning his neck, to look over the tavern’s patrons. “Anybody seen Henry Fogg?” he shouts over their heads. “We’ll need him for the pirate king!”

Those who hear agree heartily, thunking their cups atop their tables. Things go from bad to worse when Josh vaults atop the bar and announces – since Margo and the Admiral’s Men are away on tour – that The Whitespire needs actors!

Quentin's ears start to ring. Right. Naturally. Why didn’t he think of that? The best thing to do for a play with no script: fill it with players who’ll need _actual words to memorize_.

Someone asks about money.

Josh quips it won't cost them a penny!

The tavern erupts into laughter, and when Josh finishes with news that auditions are in half an hour, everyone cheers, while Quentin silently begs for the sweet release of death. Bigby, relieved of her duties to the Chamberlain’s Men for the day, clinks her mug with Rafe and Abigail in the corner. Skye, Lipson, and Sunderland dish out a few plates of mutton and gossip with each other. Even Henry Fogg finally shows up, making his usual vow when he hears the news about the pirate king: he won’t drink while he’s working.

Quentin has worked with some of them before, on and off stage. They’re not the Admiral’s Men, but they mean well, and many of them have much smaller egos to stroke. Forming a company with them won’t be so bad. That is, if he manages to make it through the next hour or so, without Josh tossing him into a dung heap. Or throwing him in the stocks. Or selling him into indentured service in the West Indies. Any of these would be preferable at this point. They'd distract him from doing far worse to himself.

Most of the tavern empties out into the street. They make their way over to the playhouse for their chance at fame, leaving Quentin behind at the bar. He rests his head on its sticky surface. How far was it to Tower Bridge again? If he got started now, grabbed some heavy rocks–

Shit. Stop it.

The barkeep asks him if he wants anything. He seriously considers ordering some mandragora.

Another voice answers for him. “Give my friend a glass of your best brandy,” says Sebastian King. “He looks like he needs it.”

Raising his head, Quentin sees his fellow playwright commandeer a stool.

“Seb,” Quentin says softly.

The nickname was a gift, after he had come to Quentin’s debut of _Fillory’s Labours Lost_ two years ago.

He must be fresh from the barber’s. His plum leather jacket has one or two flecks of hair on its shoulders. The cut’s revealed more grey, since the last time he’d seen him. The grey is even more pronounced in the scruff of his beard too.

Quentin envies that. His age. Sebastian always radiates… _something_. Calm, or order, or wisdom, maybe. His blue-green eyes fill Quentin with serenity, no matter where or when they meet. There’s a reason his plays are performed everywhere, by everyone. By now, Seb hasn’t just figured out how the world works. He’s got a hand in shaping it.

Quentin, on the other hand, never knows if he’ll live to see next season.

“How’s it going?” King says.

“Uh.” Q’s voice goes unreasonably high. “Wonderful. Really, really good.”

Seb’s eyebrows crease. He’s noticed the lie. “Orloff told me you have a new play?”

Shit. _Shit_. Seb must’ve just come from The Blackspire. Last time they’d talked, Quentin had admitted he was in a slump. He doesn’t think he can bear his pity or sympathy again. It might turn into outright disappointment this time.

He fumbles around for his purse. “Yeah. And she paid me for it, too.” Out comes one of his precious new coins from yesterday. “I can actually share that brandy with you?” He slides the sovereign towards the barkeep.

The man pulls out a pair of glasses. They’re probably the nicest things in the building. While he pours, Quentin sits up straighter, bracing himself on his arm. All this talk of Kady only encourages his sadistic brain to replay every shitty moment inside her house. Might as fucking well use what Penny said. Make himself look well-informed. “And I hear you’ve got a new one for The Blackspire?”

Seb waves this away. “Not true. They’re just doing _Doctor Faustus_ again.”

That’s not exactly a relief.

But Quentin raises his glass, congratulating him all the same. Having work is always better than scrounging for it. Seb raises his too. They both take slow swallows. The alcohol isn’t warm yet; he hasn’t held it in his hands for long enough. But the burn, even as it makes him wince, is more than welcome.

“I love your early work,” he says. “‘Was this the face that launched a thousand ships, and burnt the topless towers of Ilium?’ It just, it hits right. It’s a really good line.”

Seb looks down, examining his drink. “Yes… our early work always resonates with us, I suppose.” That seems to be about as much of the compliment as Seb’s willing to take. He never was one to brag. He tilts the brandy a little, catching a gleam of light from the doorway. “Some people like that one. Others like _Edward_. I’ll be impressed if someone wants to try staging _Tamburlaine_.” He snorts. “Again.”

A genuine smile tugs at Quentin’s mouth. _Edward II_ wasn’t for everyone, but it was one of the few times that Quentin saw a… different sort of love, finally playing out on stage. The relationship between Edward and Piers _was_ love. _Real_ love. And he’d realized that certain thoughts – ones he’d always had – weren’t flukes, or less important, or shameful, as the law and the church might have him believe. _Edward II_ had showed him there was at least _one_ part of himself he didn’t have to doubt. And it meant… much more than he could ever say.

He’d never told Sebastian that.

He still feels raw – cleaved open, really – by Alice’s words. When she said they each loved differently, she may have been a tad wrong – her relationship with Kady and Penny was testament enough – but also very right. He wondered… if….

He clears his throat. “I. I really like _Edward._ Just as much as _Faustus_ and _Tamburlaine_.”

Those great, wise eyes find his. Quietly, Seb asks, “Do you?”

Quentin hadn’t planned on proving himself. But _that_ stanza comes to him in an instant. He’d memorized it, stored in a secret part of his heart. He murmurs, for Sebastian alone, “'The mightiest kings have had their minions. Great Alexander loved Hephaestion. The conquering Hercules for Hylas wept. And for Patroclus, stern Achilles drooped. And not kings only, but the wisest men: the Roman Tully loved Octavius; grave Socrates, wild Alcibiades.'”

Seb lets the words settle between them. He acknowledges Quentin’s revelation with a single nod. And then he smiles. Quentin would almost dare say it’s with pride. There it is again. That feeling of steadiness. Where the world settles down for a spell. How Seb manages that, Quentin can only guess.

“I am writing a new piece,” Seb murmurs. “ _A Reunion in Paris_.”

“Oh yeah? Who’s reuniting?”

Seb narrows his eyes, a touch of mischief in his face now. “Well, there’s a bunch of symbolism in it, about powerful countries and their big ideas,” he says airily. “But in the midst of it all is this King. Who fakes his death, so he can cross the Channel to meet someone he loves. Lance. They’ve been apart from each other for far too long.”

Quentin bites his lip. Happiness for the other man swells in his chest. “Hope it all ends well.”

“Me too,” Seb says. He looks down, his face reddening just a bit.

When he raises his eyes again, Quentin catches them, and they share broad, knowing grins. Seb chuckles, turning away and taking another gulp of brandy. He even shakes his head at himself, his face getting redder by the second. It’s so unexpected: seeing this man – the pillar of maturity in London theatre – being openly bashful about love.

Then he clears his throat. “Now, enough about my work. Tell me about yours.”

Damnit.

“Oh, we don’t have to–”

“I insist.”

“Well. It’s. Uh. It’s. It’s called. Er. _Brian and Ethel the Pirate’s Daughter_.”

Despite themselves, even Bigby and the barman look over at him, their eyebrows minutely raised. Seb, tactfully, says nothing.

“I knooow,” Quentin says. He cards a hand through his hair.

After a moment, Seb purses his lips. “And… the plot?”

He swallows the rest of his drink in one go. Coughing a few times saves him a few precious moments. “Well, there’s this… pirate….”

But he can’t come up with a single ounce of plausible bullshit right now. That’s how fucked he is.

He folds his arms and plops them down onto the bar, burying his head between them. His confession comes out entirely muffled. “Who’m I fucking kidding. I’ve got nothing. I thought I did, and then I realized everything was childish and stupid, and I literally threw it all in the fire five minutes ago.”

“Ah.”

“Yep. The magic’s still gone!”

“Right.”

There’s the sound of creaking wood, as Seb shifts in his seat. Quentin can picture it now: King’s face falling, while he pats him on the back, and offers some platitudes and apologies. After they’d found such wonderful common ground, now they’re back to ‘master craftsman’ and ‘utter novice.’ The brandy sloshes around in his stomach.

“Well, Brian is an Irish name. Means ‘king,’” muses Seb. “So he’d be noble. Celtic. Perhaps he’s the leader of the druids. A magician-king.”

His breath catches. Quentin twists his head to the side, to look up at him.

“Problem is, the Druids’ magic’s been lost. Maybe the gods took it," Seb idly continues.

Finally, Quentin finds some words. “That’s. Damn. That’s good. Until he meets–”

“Ethel. Or–”

“I’m not sold on the name.”

The other playwright huffs. “Good to know. Right, so Brian meets… another king. A Saxon. Or a Roman. Oh, damn. What’s that name the Norse pirated from Gaelic….”

Quentin has no clue. His father had the money to send him to grammar school back in Stratford-on-Avon, but etymology wasn’t exactly par for the course there.

A moment later, lightning strikes. “Nigellus!” Seb cries in triumph, smacking the bar hard. Both of their glasses wobble a bit. “So, Anglicized, that’s Nigel. Or Nigella, if your king ends up a queen. The name means ‘champion.’”

“A parallel,” Quentin breathes. “A foil.”

Seb silently nods, not taking his eyes off him. Waiting. _Keep going, keep going._

“A foil who’s… come to the druids because... _they’ve_ lost their magic too. And the two of them have to bring magic back _together_!” Quentin stops. Gapes at Sebastian.

And the other playwright grins. Pride cascading out of him, as abundant as the Torrent Quentin had scoffed at only yesterday.

Leather boots patter down the tavern stairs. Tick pops his head in from the doorway. "Mr. Coldwater, aren’t you coming?” he hedges. “Mr. Hoberman said he can’t begin without you!”

Before Quentin can excuse himself, Sebastian playfully pushes him off of his stool, sending him on his way. “Break a leg, Q,” he says.

“You too. With your… play,” he manages. He bends into a stage-bow before he leaves, like a subject before his monarch. An old joke between them, hiding a genuine ‘thank you.’ Sebastian King’s exasperated, fond groan follows him out into the street.

As Quentin trails behind Pickwick, the new idea for the play weighs heavy. It’d found him right when he needed it, no thanks to that damn fox charm.

He has written about two kings before. He’s also done twins, and women dressed as men, loads of times, so the fact that he'd be repeating himself is pretty moot. Two protagonists working together from the start, instead of at cross purposes, is a nice change.

Still, he can’t help but drag his feet. His problems aren’t solved. He has the schema, but the physical (and emotional) act of writing still has to follow. The work never writes itself.

And. Shit.

Does it have to be a love story too? Aren’t there enough of those already? How the hell’s he supposed to make this one any different? His heart is freshly wrecked from his last lov–

No. Be honest. It was just… an infatuation. Wasn’t it.

He can’t exactly duck out of sight, to head back to his rooms. Tick keeps checking over his shoulder, making sure he isn’t lagging behind. He’s definitely aware that Josh lets Quentin have a hand in casting the show. It’s a good practice to keep: better to know which actors can handle the bigger speeches before assigning parts.

Quentin’s just gonna have to pray he sees “Brian” in one of the actors first. Then he can write the speeches around whoever it is. Otherwise, he’s heading for imminent disaster all over again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An Aside to the Audience:
> 
> A stage-keeper handled props, scene changes, sound effects, etc. A book-keeper, meanwhile, would keep track of the play's "book," cueing actors on when to enter, feeding them lines in case they forgot them, stuff like that. Both were basically the stage managers of their time.
> 
> I've pretty much credited all of Kit Marlowe's famous plays to Sebastian here, with the exception of _The Massacre at Paris_ , which I turned into A Reunion. Why? Well, because I want to set most of what happened in 5x13 on fire and replace it with something infinitely better. The lines that Q quotes are from _Doctor Faustus_ (XIII.88-89), and from _Edward II_ (I.iv.394-400) respectively. Also, please do not launch into the Marlovian theory about Shakespeare's authorship in the comments, darlings. Some of us have to sleep here.


	5. Act Two, Scene One

Well.

The disaster-hydra has officially reared its fugly heads.

Quentin leans all the way back in the gallery box. He rests his skull on the bench behind, curving his spine into a horrid angle. That brandy had been a nice indulgence, but he’s sobered up fast in the last hour. He puts an arm over his eyes. Josh smacks him on the leg. He ignores it.

Maybe Seb had put them all up to this. That’s as good an explanation as any. Friendly prank. Ha, ha! Joke’s on you, Coldwater!

How. The fuck. Did every single person auditioning. Decide to use _Doctor Faustus._

Did they think this was The Blackspire? And they’d just… wandered into The Whitespire by mistake? Tick, Sunderland, Rafe, Abigail, Lipson, Skye, Fogg, Bingle, Harriet, Victoria, Zelda, even a few strangers he didn't know… They’d all stood dead-Center Stage and offered the exact. Same. Lines. And knowing Josh, he’s already decided to hire all of them anyway.

If Quentin has to hear that damn phrase one more time–

Josh sits up straight again. Some boots clunk their way across the stage.

“Name?” Josh calls down from the gallery.

“Poppy Kline!”

“Off you go.”

“’Was this. The face that launched. A thousand ships,’” she recites, “'and burnt. The topless. Towers of. Ilium.’”

Jesus Christ. Those pauses were like dragging a rusty sword along the world’s worst whetstone. Quentin lifts his head, and he bangs it back down against the seat.

“Thank you!” Josh calls. “Head backstage; we’ll get you sorted!”

Is that the last of them? Please say that’s the last of them.

Josh hits his leg again. Quentin pries his elbow off his eyes, and sees Josh offering him a pained smile. “Anybody look like ‘Brian’ to you?”

Quentin can only groan, and he puts his arm back over his head. In the darkness, he hears Josh fold up some parchment he’s been using to record names. He plops a copy down on Quentin’s chest, and then asks about the _Brian and Ethel_ pages again.

And Quentin lies again: he’ll go get them in a few moments. Only once Josh says he’ll leave him to it, and climbs down to the ground floor, does Quentin let himself breathe.

If he’s being honest, it does hurt a little. None of them had thought, “Huh, maybe I should audition with some of _Coldwater’s words_ for his new play?” Seriously? Not one of them? _Fillory of Errors_ had only been last year. It wasn’t that hard to remember. Or _The Taming of the Winter’s Doe_. Lipson – if no one else – would’ve nailed that!

Although, to be fair, Quentin is well aware his complaints mean _less_ than nothing. He’s being a total hypocrite right now. Without a script to offer The Whitespire, this whole afternoon’s been as good a punishment as any Josh might’ve come up with on his own.

“May I begin, sir?” a voice says from the stage.

Shit. Here comes another one. And he doesn’t even _sound_ like he knows what he’s doing.

He can either send this guy away, right now, or take the slim, impossible chance he’ll be worth it.

Alright then. Fine. Quentin always did put far too much hope in other people. What’s one more….

He pushes himself up off the bench, then tucks Josh’s list into his purse and steps up to the balcony. This newcomer’s pretty tall. With the sun glaring in from the open sky, he casts quite the shadow. He’s wearing a sapphire velvet jacket, one that’s at least three years old, faded and worn at the joints. Still, it’s worth more than anything Quentin’s ever had, considering its scarlet trim. A matching hat hides his face. He’s probably some merchant’s son. Dared into auditioning by his friends, maybe. Or he wants to make a name for himself, outside his father’s influence.

Quentin tries to muster some authority. Or enthusiasm. He fails at both. “Yeah, so, uh, what’s your name?”

“Benedick Johnson, the eunuch,” the man replies.

Quentin coughs. Fucking. Hell. He turns around just as Benedick looks up at the gallery, ensuring all he can see is his back, and not the strained, disbelieving look on his face. “And, er, what’d you bring today?” he manages.

“I’m doing a speech from my favorite author,” Benedick says. His voice has an edge to it. On anyone else, the words would seem biting, almost sarcastic or belittling. But there’s a truth, an honesty, beneath it all. “Someone who, I think, commands the heart of every player.”

And _voila_. There go all Quentin’s hopes, dreams, and expectations all over again. Some of the other actors had said similar things… about the _Faustus_ lines they were about to deliver.

Quentin’s chin presses into his chest. Sure, kick him while he’s down, it’s fine. His heart’s already in shreds, go for it.

He searches for the nearest post to slam his head against. Then again, the banister’s not that high. He could leap off, after this one’s done. Break his hands in the fall. Never write ag–

“What light is light,” begins Benedick, “if one’s soul be not here? What _joy_ is joy, if my heart’s purpose _dies_? Unless it be to think… this pure liquid, not I, _can_ drain this wound? Cleanse it? Heal it? Convince me _love_ waits along my new path?”

Quentin freezes, and whips around. Benedick’s voice, shaping Quentin’s words with genuine care and devotion, is youthful now. He’s switched into a slightly higher pitch. It’s… hopeful. Honeyed. A golden, smooth cadence. It gives an _intense_ melody to the inherent rhythm. Together, they make a song Quentin’s been waiting his entire life for.

Benedick’s staring at the invisible Torrent before him. That fucking hat’s hiding his face, robbing Quentin of his expressions. But he doesn’t seem to notice the playwright’s rapture at all. He just goes, painfully, hesitantly, down onto one knee. His fingers press indents into his clothes. Like he’s barely holding himself back from plunging right off the stage, and into the water.

“…There is no music in the nightingale. Unless Love sings me awake in the day, there _is_ no day for me to look upon. I see my essence, and I leave _being,_ if I am not by Love’s fair influence fostered… _illumined, cherished,_ kept _alive._ ” Benedick – well, no, Rupert, a _true_ Rupert – laughs at himself. He takes a moment. Steels his mind. Then vows, “I fly not death, to live in deadly doom. Tarry I here. I but _attend_ on death. Drink I, and let it return me my life.”

Silence falls, and Quentin feels like something’s been _taken_ from him. He’s suddenly bereft. An eternity of quiet seconds. Yesterday, the words had aggravated him. He’d thought them empty. Now, after Alice, as he nurses his own bruised and broken heart, he wants Benedick to continue the scene so badly. He _aches_ for it. He wants to see Rupert heal, to see him win, so Quentin can see for himself that it _is_ possible to do the same.

And then it hits him. He’s found ‘Brian.’ There’s no question.

Benedick is still kneeling there. Waiting for his decision.

“Take off your hat,” Quentin begs.

The man's on his feet in an instant. “What?”

Quentin throws himself backward, clambering and vaulting over the benches to get to the stairs. “Let me see you. Take off your hat. God, how did you do that?!” He trips on his way down to the second level.

Benedick retreats. “I. Uh.”

Careening across the second floor and over to its balcony, Quentin shouts, “Take off your hat; let me see you. Seriously, who taught you? Where’d you get my words?!” He doesn’t wait for an answer, leaping back towards the stairs.

“You’re. You’re not… Mr. Coldwater, are you?” comes a worried call from the stage.

“Wait there. I need to see that again!” He swerves, dives. “Just wait. Wait right there for me!” He rounds the corner on the ground floor.

But he’s met with the sight of Benedick’s boots disappearing behind the Stage Left archway.

Where the fuck is he going?! Oh, fuck no!

Quentin throws himself up to the edge of the stage. He nearly knocks the wind from his chest, and his hair falls right in his eyes. Pushing up, his muscles straining, he scrambles across the boards. When he ducks backstage, he’s impeded by the mob of actors Josh is trying to corral. Someone calls out for their part. Another accidentally spits right in Quentin’s face when he asks for the pages.

“Where’d he go?!” Quentin bellows at them.

The room abruptly becomes a sea of blank, confused faces. Once Zelda signs what he said, Harriet gets his attention and jerks her thumb at the swinging back door. Without another word, Quentin shoves everyone out of his way, and plows through it.

Like fuck is he gonna let Benedick get away. Not without running himself ragged. The world doesn’t _get_ to dangle that kind of raw performance before his eyes, and then just whisk it away. Not after the day he’s had. Not after the lo – _infatuation_ he’s being forced to get over. It’s like the Torment of Tantalus; Revised Edition.

The back alleys in this part of London are a madhouse. Everyone apparently decided to flood the streets all at once. Even if he tries to call out, Benedick’s not gonna hear him, much less respond and give himself away. Quentin cranes his neck. He looks for blue; any tall blue shape at all. There’s nothing but brown clothes, black clothes, green clothes. There’s stained, yellowing-white, and more brown, and–

Blue! The cap bobs up and down far down the road. He’s running for the docks.

The playwright gives chase. Within moments, he’s on the outskirts of all the jetties lazily lining the Thames. The traffic along the waterfront is just as busy as the streets. Soon, he spies one rowboat shooting upriver. Its only passenger is a blue-capped man. A man who keeps turning around, to check whether he’s being followed.

Quentin charters his own boat and directs it after him. Then he’s at the mercy of the driver’s arms. The breeze hits him dead in the face, and the sun shoots sparkling reflections in his eyes.

Well, now he's got plenty of time to start doubting himself. Had he said something to make Benedick run? Something harsh or rude? He’s not sure. Unless his enthusiasm made him nervous? Or was the man’s face disfigured, and Quentin had offended him by asking to see it? Or did Benedick just remember he was late for something and simply sped out the door? Each is a possibility. He isn’t going to get any answers unless he catches him.

The boatman tries to make small talk, but Q barely answers. His eyes are trained on the boat on the horizon. Ultimately, Benedick’s craft drifts to a stop at a private dock. Quentin is powerless, stuck in his seat, forced to watch the distant blue figure leap out. He goes dashing up the slope to the large manor above.

“Who’s house is that?” he asks the boatman.

“Sir Waugh and his family. Fairly new nobles, them. Bought the place five years ago, after they bought that title the year before that.”

Okaaaay. For some reason, Benedick’s staying at a knight’s house? This’s going to be… interesting.

But not impossible. There’ll be kitchen staff, or gardeners, or some other servant who can help. Once they get close enough, Q slaps a shilling into the boatman’s hand. He bolts out of the skip and up to the house, telling the man not to wait.

And because Benedick has, by this time, rounded the copse of trees up the path, Quentin then completely misses what follows:

The runaway actor tugs off his hat, revealing Eliot Waugh and all his carefully pinned curls beneath. He sticks his hat in his mouth as he goes. He needs both hands to free his hair, and then unclasp his doublet. He’s only got ‘til his bedroom to remove anything he can.

He hasn't run like this since.... God, he can't even remember how long. It’d be a little glorious if he wasn't so mortified. Even if his lungs and limbs hate him right now, he wasn’t about to stay another minute on that stage. Not if Quentin _motherfucking_ Coldwater him- _motherfucking-_ self was going to rip him a new one for doing the speech wrong. Chasing after him through the streets – right up to his own front door – was just the last nail in the coffin.

This whole thing had been a royally stupid idea. So much for one last adventure. Oh yes, just find The Whitespire, stop in a tavern, see when auditions are! Oh, they're today? Well, try out for a part, show the world how it should be done! Yes. Perfect plan. And then, oh, how about _completely_ flustering and/or enraging the one person he’d hoped to meet, and maybe even impress. Well done, that.

Eliot’s father has some day-long, masquerade gala né salon né ball planned for today. A bidding war on Eliot’s hand in marriage, probably, based on Todd’s warning last night. If Eliot wasn’t certain he’d get beaten black and blue for it, he’d just beg off with a headache, and mope in bed for the rest of the day. Bury himself under a mountain of pillows. For all time. Death by pillow asphyxiation. That’d solve everything. At least he’ll be able to drown himself in, like, a whole casket of wine tonight, before all’s said and done. God, what had he been thinking?! Things couldn't possibly get any worse!

Taking a side corridor, he sprints up two flights of stairs, and barrels across the hall. He barely misses the two voices coming from the foyer before his rooms. Braking just in time, he presses his ear to the door.

His mother’s inside. She’s complaining to Todd, in that nasal, pinched voice she uses when she’s really upset, about how she’s being _dragged_ out to the country with her husband, for three whole weeks, to visit _all_ their other estates, and _all_ the packing she has to arrange, can you _imagine_.

All this is mixed in with the other usual, general complaints about Eliot himself. His untidy rooms. His manners. His hair. His beard. All those poetry books and play folios, just left out all over the place.

And poor Todd’s forced to smile and agree with all of it.

Hmmm. Now it comes down to choosing a lesser of two evils.

Eliot can enter as he is. Dressed in old, faded clothes, hair askew, like he had Todd dress him this way on _purpose_ just to spite her, and he’ll lie about what he’s been doing _all_ day, when _all_ his father’s _guests_ have been waiting for them, to get the salon started, for an _hour_ , oh _, her poor _nerves_ …._

Or, he can sneak into his bedroom, through Todd’s private entrance two doors over. Then he can strip, toss his nightclothes back on, and open his door like he’s just woken up, even though it’s hours past noon. And then he’ll get scolded for the sloth he’s so _errantly_ displaying, no doubt brought on by his gluttonous drinking the night before _again_ , and, oh, he’d had time to shave last night but not to rise early this morning, did he, honestly, why did God _curse_ her with such a son….

The latter might involve less yelling, now that he thinks about it. He ducks into Todd’s access hall, undergoes a lightning fast quick-change, and pushes his bedroom door open.

“Morning, Mother!” he says, all smiles.

And off she goes. After a solid fifteen minutes, he manages plenty of contrition, humbly asking her leave, so he can have the servants bring up hot water for a bath to ready himself for tonight. She departs in a huff, but he knows she’s satisfied, having unleashed her sanctimonious tirade. He only starts to relax once he’s actually in the tub. His muscles loosen. The heat pulls the stress away. His heart slows, and he closes his eyes, cupping the water and splashing his face.

Eliot, as a rule, doesn’t do guilt. Hedonist, Humanist, call him what you like. He says all the necessary things to his mother and father; but, inwardly, he has a clearer conscience than any cardinal in the Vatican. Yet here he sits, shame still worming its way through his ribs. Worse, confirmation: that he really didn’t deserve a moment’s happiness. A moment’s chance, to be himself, by playing someone else. Trying out for a play, to honor all that Coldwater’s done for him, by bringing his powerful words to life. All wrong. All just a stint of foolish pride.

He brings up another handful of water to his face. As it dribbles off his cheeks, he keeps his head in his palms.

The bathroom door opens, and Todd walks in.

“Sir?”

“Can it wait, Todd?”

“Um. Sure. It’s just. It’s a letter?”

Eliot sighs. “Debts? A hunt? Some _other_ lord trying to bribe me to wed his daughter?”

He hears Todd shift on his feet. The floor creaks beneath his weight. “It’s from, um, some man downstairs. He kept asking for Benedick Johnson, the actor.” As Eliot raises his head, Todd swallows and starts babbling. His words tumble faster after he sees Eliot’s eyes zero in on the folded paper in his hands.

“See, a scullery maid kept saying there was, like, some ruffian outside the kitchens, maybe a drunkard? He was panting and asking about some man she’d never heard of. When I found him, ready to call the guards, I heard him use that name? The one you came up with this morning. The one you thought was uh, um, anyway, so I said, ‘who’s asking for him,’ and the guy said he was Quentin Coldwater, playwright for The Whitespire, and I remembered that’s where you went this morning, so I lied, and said you, or, er, uh, ‘Benedick,’ was my cousin, and he gave me this, and he said he was willing to wait, which I dunno if he should even bother ‘cause you’ll be busy all day and all night and–”

By this point, Eliot has climbed out of the tub. He towels off, grabs his silk robe, and goes to sit in a blue lounge chair by the window. When he stretches out his arm, palm open, Todd takes that as his cue to shut up. He hands the letter over without another word.

There are several unfamiliar names listed on the outside. Inside, Eliot has to reread the handwriting a few times, just to make sure he’s deciphered it. He doesn’t know where Coldwater found the quill or ink to pen this. As a matter of fact, it looks to be kohl, not ink – and it’s hastily done, with abbreviations and contractions wherever possible:

_Dear Mr. Johnson,_

_If I’ve done something to offend, or caused you undue distress, I humbly beg your forgiveness. Words’re my trade & yet today I seemed to’ve used all the wrong ones. Perhaps, now that I’ve the chance, I’ll find the right ones to convince you of my sincerity. _

_I can only guess it’s your first time auditioning. With that kind of natural talent, any other company in London would’ve snatched you up years ago. Your performance today was beyond magnificent. The moment you began, I was captivated. I find myself lamenting that the whole world wasn’t there to witness it, yet also secretly pleased that I was the only one in the audience. I saw myself in you. The way you were so utterly true to the character and his struggles… I haven’t seen such honesty in a long, long time._

_The Whitespire needs you. I’ve a new play & you were born to be its title character, Brian. He’s a king of the druids of Fillory, who must suddenly contend with both his people losing their magic, and also a rival king, who demands his help in getting his own magic back first. I beg you: return to the theater tomorrow, join our company, & help me bring Brian to the people of London. They’re waiting for him. They’re waiting for you. _

_We start midmorning. Please come._

_Q. Coldwater_

Eliot is struck dumb. He doesn’t know if this _fire_ in his gut is genuine joy, or just nausea from nerves. He'd be livid at himself for running away, if not for the fact that he now has this impossible letter in his hands. He wants to hide it, hoarding it away so no one will ever see its contents. He wants to hire a stonemason, and preserve the words for eternity for all to see. He’s _impressed_ Quentin _motherfucking_ Coldwater. Where’s a goddamn hallelujah chorus when he needs one.

“He sees himself in me,” he marvels.

“Is that good?” Todd asks, coming a little closer.

Eliot turns to his friend. He can’t keep the smile from his face. “He wants me for the lead role. Brian, king of Fillory.”

“Fillory again, huh?”

That’s what he focuses on?! Eliot tries not to gape at him. “It’s the _lead_. He wants me, an unknown in London theatre circles, to spearhead the whole thing. You get what that means, right? I’m going to be in a _Coldwater_ play. The author _himself_ cast me.”

Todd swallows. Instead of answering, he leaves the room. When he returns, he has Eliot’s finest clothes draped over his arms. One by one, he hangs them on a nearby changing screen. Eliot’s heart starts to sink as he sees each layer come out. It’s like he’s piling up all the reasons why he shouldn’t do it.

“Your mother and father–”

“Are leaving tomorrow. For almost three whole weeks,” Eliot reminds him.

He tries not to clench his teeth. He can see where this is going. And it’s unfair of him, it really is, to get frustrated at someone who’s only ever, genuinely, wanted good things for him. But he can’t help it. He can’t let this go. He will regret it for the rest of his short, miserable life if he doesn’t take this chance at a brief period of true happiness. Of adventure. Of spending time with people willing to explore what it means to be _human_. Instead of all the parading and pretending and backstabbing that comes with living as a green-eyed monster of noble birth.

“This play? Coldwater’s play? Can give Benedick Johnson a life Eliot Waugh’s only ever dreamed of,” Eliot says. Reprimands. Pleads.

Todd hangs his head. He takes down a fresh pair of underclothes for Eliot to put on. Once he meets his eyes, though, Eliot can tell Todd’s resigned to helping him, even if it may lead to complete disaster. A smile even grows on Todd’s face. He’s glad to finally see the young, hopeful man Eliot’s had hidden away for so long. He even has a funny look in his eyes, as he promises to help. Although, when Eliot asks him about it, he evades.

“Whaaat,” Eliot presses.

Todd shrugs. “Just wondering, sir…”

Eliot puts on the underclothes, and then grabs his shirt and trousers. “Wondering what?”

“You said ‘Benedick’s supposed to be a eunuch.”

Eliot avoids his eyes. He babbles, trying to convince himself as much as his friend, “It’s just in case I wind up… erm, having to kiss someone. On stage. Or if someone… happens to kiss me. You know. Those things… can happen. Accidentally. You know how it is. I don’t want to be dragged off as a sodomite, right? It’s for protection. Or if someone tries to drag me to a whorehouse, or….”

Todd just stands there, waiting.

Finally, Eliot gets it. He doesn’t move his head, exactly, but his eyes definitely flick downwards. Todd snorts.

Eliot goes red, then frowns. “Well, uh, short of calling a _surgeon_ , what d’you suggest?” he says testily.

“I have a few ideas. Good thing you have a few spare garters,” Todd says. “And I don’t _have_ to mend that old pair of hose you wore a hole in last week.”

That doesn’t exactly answer his question.

But, neither of them would've made it this far without the other. The most valuable thing Eliot has is their mutual trust. When an immutable part of you is “blasphemous,” “illegal,” and “disgusting” in the eyes of thousands, trust literally keeps you alive. He and Todd learned early on, not without a few bumps in the road, that they wouldn’t make it in this world without each other.

They have the rest of the night, and tomorrow morning, to sort the other details out. Todd’s offering a genuine solution. One he’s confident in. So he’ll have faith. Eliot will buoy himself through this blasted masquerade ball – amidst every loathsome attendee, and throughout every loathsome hour in their company – with thoughts of The Whitespire, and Coldwater’s praise, dancing through his head.

Coldwater.

He isn’t what Eliot expected. A shorter man, with long, chestnut brown hair, which sometimes obscured his pleasant, expressive face. Spry, but clumsy. No aloofness, no elitism. And, surprisingly, much less restraint in going after what he wants. He’s relentless, no doubt…. But, his letter also suggests a considerate, compassionate nature. There’s even something almost like shyness hidden in his words.

Poets decorate and laud and cajole; it’s required of them. Eliot knows this well. All the same, since Todd delivered this so quickly, after he’d returned home… Eliot has to assume the playwright didn’t have the time to pen anything but the truth.

_They’re waiting for you._

_I was captivated the moment you began._

_…secretly pleased that I was the only one in the audience._

Careful, Eliot cautions himself. He can’t let that… that _feeling_ turn into anything. He can’t. Just because he might get to live out one of his dreams soon, doesn’t mean- Doesn’t mean he’s allowed to… to have any hope of… of anything.

He puts a stop to all further thought. He can’t send Coldwater any sort of reply: his mother is probably watching his rooms like a wolf outside a rabbit warren. There’s nothing he can do but let the poet leave the manor with nothing but his hopes. It’s alright, though. Eliot _will_ show up that the theater tomorrow, make amends, and everything'll be fine.

Todd’s still looking at him expectantly.

“I’ll try your idea, whatever it is,” Eliot promises. “And remind me to speak to my father. You’ve more than earned a raise, dealing with my… latest follies.”

“Thanks, sir,” his friend says mildly, “Glad something’s finally made you realize.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An Aside to the Audience:
> 
> Okay, there's like 3 meta-layers behind why I chose Eliot's pseudonym that I'd like to unpack here. First, Ben Jonson was another contemporary of Shakespeare's. He was a member of the Admiral's Men like Ned Alleyn, as well as a playwright of his own merit. Second, Benedick is one of the leads in _Much Ado About Nothing_ , and if good ol' Willy Shakes can have a dozen Rosalines, then I can have this. And finally, of course Eliot would go with a double dick joke when he's supposed to be a eunuch. Do _you_ think Eliot could resist walking up to someone and introducing himself as Good-Dick Dick the Dickless? Particularly if Eliot Waugh's Canonically Huge Dick is an actual tag here? DO YOU????
> 
> Now for a complete 180, please be advised:  
> Although Eliot in this fic is comfortable in his identity as a man, he'll be engaging in the practice of tucking for the sake of his Benedick disguise, using the equivalent of a gaff. I don't know if this will bring up any feelings of dysphoria for some readers, but I wanted to put it on your radar now, just in case. I made the decision for him to tuck based on a number of factors. I did as much research as I could beforehand, and discussed it with one of my betas. Eliot is aware he is appropriating the identity of a eunuch, and some of the then-social stigma that comes with it, to use for his own purposes. The Elizabethan Era did not have the same notions of gender-identity that we do today, and I tried to walk the line between our modern ideas, and what needs to happen for character arc/plot reasons. I do try to inject some comedy here and there - this is kinda a rom com, folks - but the characters also discuss Eliot's choice seriously later on, and he does not do anything that stereotypes eunuchs as far as I am aware. Cross-casting and cross-dressing have been theatrical staples for ages (most of my own roles on stage have actually been dudes), and this was my way of somewhat keeping with the movie's plot, while trying to avoid the trope of men dressing as women purely for laughs, especially since I'd already decided women were already allowed on stage in this AU. Also, I personally think Billy Shakes, like our dear Quentin, was bi as hell, and the movie kinda la dee da's over that. If something fell through the cracks, though, or if I wrote something I shouldn't have out of ignorance, please let me know. You can find me on twitter if you'd like to discuss it.


	6. Act Two, Scene Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to hear the music that plays during the Waugh's ball, feel free to pull this [video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VJ4Xn9O1ARA) up.
> 
> ~Gentlemen upstage, ladies downstage. Are you a lady, Mr. Kent?!~

It’s getting rather dark. The night’s chill is just starting to creep in. Carriages have been arriving at the Waugh manor house for hours, and one or two stragglers still trickle onto the grounds at intervals, scandalously late. Grooms shepherd the horses around the lane once they drop off their passengers. Torches and bonfires in braziers line the pathways, lighting up the grassy knolls like constellations in the sky.

As for The Whitespire’s playwright? He’s just about ready to give up. Ever since some scullery maid spread that story about a ruffian, most of the manor staff shoo or dismiss Quentin every time they lay eyes on him. He’s had to avoid a few cauldrons of dirty water flung in his direction “by mistake.”

There’s been no sign of Benedick. The actor’s cousin from earlier, Todd, did seem honest enough. Quentin had no reason _not_ to trust him with the letter. It’s not like its contents are important enough to demand he deliver it personally. He said he’d wait, and he has.

But still. No word. He’s watched the sun drag all the way across the sky, and then fall below the horizon. His stomach’s clawing at him. He hasn’t eaten since breakfast, and a single noontime brandy isn’t exactly known for quenching thirst.

With a sigh, he knows all he can do is hope. Hope that his words are enough, to make up for whatever he’d said or done. He has to accept it: he isn’t going to get an answer ‘til tomorrow. And he’s hidden from Josh all day. He’s long overdue back at his apartment. He needs to try and pen some drivel for rehearsal tomorrow. Might as well head to the docks, see if he can flag down a boat.

Halfway down the gravel road, he sees a band of minstrels making their way toward him. And, wait… he knows that face! “Plum!” he calls to the leader.

Her bushy curls bounce as she jerks her head up. Once she spots him, she returns his wave and comes bounding forward. “Quentin! Haven’t seen you since Easter!” she says, pulling him into a tight hug.

He pats her on the back. As they break apart, it’s clear that time's been good to her. She’s definitely got some new clothes, judging by that buttercream dress. There’s a bright pink scarf keeping her hair back, and fresh strings clang on her well-polished lute.

“What’re you doing here?”

“Sir Waugh’s man scouted us,” she says, still a little breathless. “We’re here to play for the dancing,” She gives him a once-over. Lightly, she says, “We’re promised five shillings each. Feel like you can man a tambourine? Keep a tempo?”

Huh. He really must look terrible. He’s about to explain and decline, but then he catches himself. How desperate is he, really? Not for the money – although that wouldn’t hurt either. How desperate is he to find Benedick? There’re a million reasons to head back into the city. He has no clue what he’ll even say, if he finds Benedick somewhere inside.

But Quentin hasn’t heard his voice in hours. A part of him fears he’ll never hear it again.

He takes Plum up on her offer. One of the musicians grabs a tambourine out of her pack and tosses it at him. They start back towards the manor together. Plum walks him through their set list. He memorizes the beats for any songs he doesn’t know by heart.

They make it inside after a small misadventure. One tardy noble on horseback comes thundering up the lane, almost at full gallop. Quentin and the musicians have to run themselves off the road, just to avoid being trampled. No one’s hurt, thankfully, although Plum has to brush off her new dress with a grimace. Once they enter the manor, a footman leads them to a small, raised box in the back of a grand ballroom. They set themselves up, tune their instruments, and start with a lively galliard. After they play a few more songs, they overhear Lady Fen was the one responsible for nearly making pancakes out of them.

A gossipy serving man points the lady out when she approaches Sir Waugh on the sidelines. She’s in an embroidered, goldenrod velvet gown. A proud, crisp ruff runs around her neck. Her hair’s pinned in the style Queen Julia favors, and her expression is nothing but sweetness and cordiality. In her hands, she holds a delicate white rabbit mask.

The servant, though, notes how she’s no doubt negotiating her marriage to Sir Waugh’s son as they speak. Talking circles ‘round the knight, she is, like a fox in a chicken coop.

The other servant starts whispering back. Some people say the Wessex mines are mortgaged, but Sir Waugh’s capital will balance out the ledgers. It’ll get him a legitimate noble grandson in the end; that’s all he wants.

They do seem to know a lot, Quentin reasons. He tries to keep his tambourine going, and approaches them politely. He asks if they know a Benedick Johnson, by chance? The actor? They just sniff, saying musicians don’t eat, Sir Waugh’s orders, and they take their platters of food out of reach.

He goes back to the box, but doesn’t climb inside. It’s easier to survey the ballroom from down here. The floor is a mix of dark and light marble squares. Set in their own unique pattern, but definitely imitating Whitehall’s designs. Walls of dark pinewood tower over the party. They're decorated with as many windows and medieval murals as he’d expect to see in a cathedral. The high-beamed ceiling plays with the sounds of song and conversation. Like a canyon, toying with an echo.

He turns his gaze to the partygoers next. The tricky part is, he has no way of knowing what Benedick’s face looks like. He might have retired to his rooms for the night. Or, he might be here, in this very room – but he’s changed into different clothes, in case Todd asked him to staff the party. Keep the wine flowing, clean up spills, maybe make a coin or two for his trouble, that sort of thing.

Just how is Quentin supposed to find him, now that he’s inside the house?

Plum lets their song fade. She starts to lead them into a slow, delicately plucked tune, perfect for a volt. Dozens of masked couples, young and old, sweep towards the center in their finery, forming lines eagerly. It’s the only dance where partners are allowed to embrace. Even Sir Waugh extends a hand to his wife, and they find their place in line, putting up matching rooster and hen masks. He bows his head to Lady Fen as he goes, and she nods in response. 

As the dancers organize, Lady Fen weaves her way across the room. She’s aiming for a man practically dripping in peacock feathers.

The man makes some kind of joke. The young lords and ladies around him erupt into laughter. He sweeps into a bow, his tall, lithe frame bending just at the waist. As his beaked mask disappears from view, his long arms extend outward, and an impressive, fanned plumage of genuine feathers rises behind his back, as if on invisible strings. This delights the crowd even more.

Quentin knows The Whitespire would never be able to replicate that, not in a million years, but it’s so damn striking. He tucks it away in his mind, in case he can use it later. The sight of this fellow is magnetic. He’s pulling people in, like a deep current beneath a becalmed ocean. His suit shimmers with inlaid sapphires and jade. He straightens, his mask twinkling, and he offers his arm to someone noticeably _not_ Lady Fen, drawing her to the dance. Fen, in turn, finds her own partner with some determination, and follows.

“My God, who _is_ that?” he says, nudging Plum above him with his elbow.

She turns, not sure who he means. He jerks his head in the direction of the peacock.

“Dream on, Quentin,” she says, raising her eyebrows. “That’s Fen, remember?”

“No, no,” he says. He waves his hands and goes off-beat by accident, the little cymbals crashing excitedly. “The man over there. Who’s he?”

She squints. Sparkles from the costume dazzle their eyes. The man’s stepped right under a chandelier. “I think that’s Eliot Waugh,” she says. “He’s the one who might’ve sent for us, actually, not his father, now that I think about it. Seen him at court a lot. Always respects the music.” Plum turns back to one of her drummers, cueing him to strike up a deep, hypnotic tempo. The thunder offsets Quentin’s heartbeat, echoing in his chest.

“Oh,” he murmurs. His thoughts start to just... seep away. He has to focus, to keep his rhythm. It’s like he’s being drawn into a trance.

The dance begins, in sturdy beats of eight. The lute counters every other note from the flautist. Hearing the signal, the two lines, with each man facing his woman, bow to each other.

_One. And two. And three. And four. And–_

They step forward. A touch of hands, palm to palm. Each man circles his partner, as she circles him in return.

_Five, and six, and seven, and eight, and–_

Everyone turns around, now faced with a new partner. There’s another bow. They press hands again, and circle. A few look right at each other, others gaze about the room. Eye contact is too intimate for some. But they converse. Small talk. The number of couples. What’ll be on the menu for supper.

_One and two and three and four and._

The peacock takes his partner around the waist, soundlessly lifting her. Right in time with the music, like he’s an extension of it. The rest of the couples are but a second behind.

_Five and six and seven and eight and._

Every woman sails around in a half circle, until, a beat later, they are gently set down on the floor, as if they weighed nothing at all. Singular carousels, every one of them. Quentin holds his breath throughout the whole thing. His tambourine falls to his side as the pattern repeats itself. He imagines, just for a moment–

A young girl, barely sixteen, careens into the musicians’ box next to Quentin. The wood’s sturdy enough; it doesn’t shake at all. Plum doesn’t even appear to notice. Quentin quickly places the tambourine on the ledge.

“Are you alright, my lady? Do you feel faint, or…?”

She giggles, hiccupping. She jerks her head over to a gaggle of her friends, all about her age. They whisper to each other, then motion her onward.

She giggles again. Then, with a surprising amount of balance, she snags his upper arm, and drags him right into the edge of the dance, nearly tripping on the folds of her pink dress. One of her friends joins them, her own partner jogging to keep up.

Quentin doesn’t even have the time to call out in alarm. And he can’t say anything anyway; it’ll make a scene. One quick word, from any of the nobles here, and the guards will swarm him, kick him out. Or, worse, take him back to London and throw him in a cell.

Plus - not to make matters catastrophically worse - this young girl has also placed them on _opposite_ sides. _He’s_ where _she’s_ supposed to be, and she’s… she’s sort of leading? But not really? She’s mostly, drunkenly, just scouting the edge of the room, looking for someone’s reaction. Her conspirators keep checking too. Maybe she’s spiting her parents, or making a suitor jealous. Either it hasn’t occurred to her that they’ll blame Quentin for the whole thing, or she just doesn’t care.

Okay. Okay, um. It’s fine. He’s done this dance before, for _Fillory’s Labours Lost_. It’s gonna be fine. He digs around in his memory, and lets the drum fill him up. He doesn’t think, doesn’t step out of time. He just dances.

Another partner switch overtakes them. Now he’s in a group of entirely masked dancers. He can see the irritation or confusion in their eyes. He has no mask, he’s on the wrong side, he’s messing everything up, he’s–

_Act_ , he tells himself over and over. _Just act. Walk around like you own the place, and they’ll think you know what you’re doing!_

He fixes a neutral smile on his face, and bows. _A charming mix-up, sir, quite amusing, I agree. Do carry on._ The man across from him, a badger, frowns even further, but he doesn’t stop. He presses his palm to Quentin’s, and they keep going. Quentin politely makes sure to keep his eyes on the right wall, using his periphery. The badger circles, and they change partners. Now Quentin’s with an ox, who pointedly does not put his hands around his waist, but they manage.

If he remembers right, there’s still about four or five switches to go. Everyone’s supposed to dance with as many partners as possible. Promoting social engagement, forming new acquaintances, letting suitors flirt with their paramours. Whatever. He just has to grin and bear it. Obviously no one’s going to make small talk with him. He’s in days-old clothing. Smudges of dirt decorate his front, and no one knows who he is. If he gets over to the edge, then he can duck out through a side door, and start searching for–

Fuck.

All of the ladies, including him, now have to step forward, making two lines and passing by each other, exchanging a press of palms as they go. And Lady Fen’s right in front of him.

No, it’s okay, he doesn’t have to dance with her. He’s on the wrong side.

The pair-off resumes. He’s across from a ram now. Bow. Hands. Circle. A flash of light hits him in the eyes. Then he’s facing the peacock. Or, er, Eliot Waugh.

The man gasps. Quentin swallows, but he bends, bowing like he’s supposed to. This is the host’s son. One wrong move, and he’s exposed.

“Mr. Coldwater,” Eliot says. His voice is just above a whisper. Surprised. Uncertain. Delighted.

What? How… how does he know him?

Quentin doesn’t let himself freeze. His training kicks in. Theater makes you ready for anything. Someone drops half a monologue, they forget a crucial prop, a cannon goes off in Act Two when it’s supposed to go off in Act Five. You adapt, improvise, and keep going.

He raises his hand. Eliot hesitates. He sees that Quentin doesn’t know him. There doesn’t seem to be any disappointment coming off him, though, as he slowly brings his hand up too.

And they touch. Warmth spreads, just as slowly, across the skin of his palm and through his fingers. He can feel his pulse. It’s hammering, twice as fast as the drums that control their pace.

As they circle each other, Eliot isn’t taking his eyes off of him. They’re a radiant, heart-stopping hazel, a blend of vibrant meadow grass and a warm baker’s loaf, all in two gorgeous irises, and he’s lined his lids with black kohl. Quentin’s going to drown in them if he’s not careful. Behind the safety of his mask, Eliot is also… blatantly, steadily, trailing his eyes over Quentin’s body. From head to toe. Heat floods Quentin’s chest, spreading like wildfire through his arms and legs, all the way up to his cheeks and brow. He can’t help it. He curls his fingers, properly joining their hands. He can hear Eliot sharply inhale through his nose.

Until the moment comes. The lift. It’s supposed to happen now. He’s terrified. What if he doesn’t– What if he _does–_?

Eliot draws his hand along, using their interwoven grip. Quentin has to turn his back. He feels Eliot curve his free hand around his waist, pressing below his ribs, and the touch burns. Now it’s his turn to gasp, as he feels every inch of Eliot's chest against his back. They lift together, and Quentin’s off the ground for three impossible, thrilling seconds, sailing through the air, with Eliot’s hip pressed to his. A stable, solid, warm comfort, through the soft silk of his costume.

It’s over too soon. They’re supposed to change partners again. But Eliot deliberately follows Quentin along, usurping the partner before him. Once more, they bow, join hands, and circle each other. It’s more intense than ever, when they lift together again. Like a powerful wine has overtaken his mind, making every second important and unpredictable and wild. His muscles seem to be moving all on their own, as if they’ve practiced together a hundred times. Quentin is breathing so fast, it’s all he can do to keep up. He wants to cry out from this… this genuine _joy_ that’s overflowing inside him, to shout it into the rafters, for all to hear.

A second flute strikes up, signaling the crescendo of the dance. The lines of dancers reform, into an unbreaking circle. And Eliot doesn’t lead him to the ring. He draws Quentin into the very center.

* * *

[ ](https://yourtinseltinkerbell.tumblr.com/post/630338525477437440/once-more-they-bow-join-hands-and-circle-each)

* * *

Everything is bright, electrifying. As the couples whirl around them, Eliot quietly notes, “You’re The Whitespire’s playwright. A poet.”

A daze, a hum, a roar is filling his head. His thoughts are a mess. What a sight they must be, the calm eye of this dizzying storm. His ears expect to hear whispers and shouts at any moment. But there’s no fear, or worry. He basks in it all: Eliot’s cerulean feathered collar, the rosy tint of his cheeks, their still-clasped hands. The mask covers too much, escalating the mystery, even though he knows exactly who he is. It’s like Quentin’s been called to undertake an epic quest. By a towering, glowing, mythical creature, or a muse, or a god. He can’t imagine what he’s done to earn Eliot’s attention. Hell, he can’t even speak. If he does, he might shatter this beautiful dream.

“But a poet of no words, huh?” Eliot teases, although he hasn’t lost that… that wonder. Like, somehow, against all odds, he’s met Quentin here, of all places.

Wait, no! He has the words! He’ll – he’ll prove it! He makes some kind of noise, but the end of the song cuts him off. The world suddenly grinds to a staggering halt.

Every dancer begins to clap, turning to each other with polite smiles. Trying for subtlety, each of them also shoots Eliot and Quentin a curious, almost hungry glance. It’s easy to tell they’re waiting for something. Waiting to _see_. Whether their noble peer is just reprimanding some sullied stranger. Or if he’s about to do something much, _much_ more entertaining.

Eliot’s head jerks up, and his jaw hardens. Quentin, concerned, follows his gaze, looking over his shoulder. Sir Waugh is staring at his son, with an expression that’s impossible to read. He beckons Eliot over with a nod and a few curved fingers. But Eliot's entire body goes rigid, and Quentin hears him draw a shaky breath.

Quentin is brutally brought back down to earth even more. They’d been dancing, literally, along a very dangerous edge. They have to step back from this precipice. Right now.

Eliot can only flick his eyes down, meeting Quentin’s gaze one last time. The slightest twitch of a smile is all he can allow for an apology. Then he leaves him right there, to return to playing his own role. He saunters across the floor, nodding his head at faces he recognizes, making a few remarks to them as he goes. Quentin is left alone on the dance floor, trying not to panic. He doesn’t dare stare after him.

He feels like a piece of him has been ripped away. Which makes no sense. The whole thing was nothing more than an accident. Just because some noble had recognized him and danced with him ( _twice, by God, he'd been lifted twice!)_ that doesn’t mean he has to go and lose his head about it. He really should get out of here. He can’t allow anything else he does to reflect badly on Plum. She had only brought him inside as a kindness. If she ends up losing her wages tonight, thanks to him….

Fen, beneath her white rabbit mask, glides forward, and delicately hooks her arm around his. In a gentle murmur, she says, “Here, come this way.”

She leads him towards a stone archway along the nearest wall. He looks over at Plum as he goes. She’s keeping a worried eye on him, but there’s nothing she can do from the confines of her box. Frankly, he’s not sure what he can do either. There’s no way to tell what Fen’s up to. She’s either saving him from further stares, or encouraging them on purpose.

She turns to face him once they reach the wall. In a large landscape painting above their heads, a pair of knights are squaring off against each other. Taking off her mask, she fixes him with a civil smile, as she folds her hands in front of her stomach. Her indigo eyes, though, are sharp and calculating.

“There we go,” she says. “You looked like a deer among the wolves out there! Are you alright?”

“Yes, my lady. Thank you.”

She tilts her head at him a little. “I’ve never seen you before. Mr. Waugh said you were a poet?”

Quentin nods. If she’s baiting him to search for Eliot, he won’t fall for it. He keeps his eyes only on her. The problem is, he doesn’t know which role to put on. A humble commoner? A wide-eyed idiot? Maybe a bit of both? She sounds like she’s just offering pleasantries, but he’s no safer here than he was out on the dance floor.

“I’ve never seen anything like this, my lady. Words don’t quite do it justice.”

Her face doesn’t change. “What do you mean?”

“Oh. Uh.” He tries to give a small, safe gesture towards the room as a whole. “The architecture. The dancing. All of these… these costumes and masks.”

Now her face changes. Her smile widens, and her eyes crinkle at the edges. If Quentin didn’t know better, he’d think the two of them were rehearsing a scene together. It’s all so jarringly conversational. But, clearly, she’s the only one with the script.

Another song strikes up from the musicians’ box, and Fen puts her hands behind her back. “Yes, the dancing was so lovely! Who was your partner? In the beginning?”

“Honestly I… I don’t know,” he confesses. He even lets himself smile a bit too, trying to put her at ease, like the two of them are confidants. “I was sort of a, um, an unwitting partner? This girl, um, she had my arm before I knew what was happening. I didn’t even realize I was on the wrong side ‘til it was too late. And then everything was moving. I knew that, if I left, I’d make the number of couples uneven, and end up disrupting the whole thing. Lord Waugh, uh, he, he rescued me, thankfully. He took himself out of the–”

Suddenly, Fen has a knife pressed right to his throat.

“H-h-how do I offend, my lady?” Quentin gasps.

Her grip is steady and sure, betraying years of practice with this sort of threat. “Rescued you? Please. You, a common _man_ , danced with my betrothed. Not just once. You entrapped him entirely. Do you know how that looks?!”

If he swallows, she’ll cut him. If he nods, he’ll get nicked. “I’m sorry. Please, my lady. It was all an accident. I swear.”

“I won’t spill your blood here. That’d be further insult to my host,” she says. “But I’m not afraid to cut your throat the next time we meet. What’s your name?”

No one’s going to save him. Fen is a Wessex. Her station outranks any of theirs three times over.

A name. Any name. Just not his. What name can he give her? Something that’ll protect him.

Wait. Maybe. Maybe, if she recognizes it, she’ll reconsider killing him.

“Seb. Sebastian King, my lady.”

She pushes him away, not dropping the knife. He stumbles backward through the arch, clapping a hand to his neck. The blade has only shaved off some stubble, thank God. He turns and flees down the stairs, escaping out into the night air. His legs take him across the grassy slope and into a small, thick hedgerow. Panic sets in. He moans, whimpers, and takes quick, harsh gasps of air, hyperventilating. Black dots swim before his eyes.

All wrong. Everything he’d done today. From the moment he got out of bed. Fortune had most certainly turned her wheel. He isn’t just at the bottom. He's being crushed underneath it.

He wants to bring back that bright, perfect moment. Of Eliot, staring at nothing but him. The awe in his voice. The warmth of their hands. His heartbeat thrumming along his skin. The safety of their dance, of being held by someone strong and stable and… fucking… charming. Charming as _fuck._ He wants to have that kind of attention fill his soul for days, months, years. Seb’s blush earlier makes so much sense now.

But his eyes ache, from lack of sleep. His body feels run-through. His heart is bruised. Alice’s honesty. Benedick’s flight. Eliot’s departure. And his chin burns from the knife. Reminding him of his low, bottom-feeding place in the world.

Quentin can’t say how long he hides there. One breath at a time, he starts to gather himself back together. The ghostly light of the full moon peaks in through the leaves and twigs of the brush. It’s risen high in the sky now. Much higher than when he’d met Plum on the path.

The night is bright enough; he’ll be able to find his way back to the river. So long as he says off all of the main roads, in case Fen has sent fucking… assassins after him, or something. With a shaky hand, he parts the branches of the hedge. A few thorns and leaves scrape along his face and arms. Stumbling, he stands, his joints aching and stiff. The lawn is much wider than he thought. It’s meant for smaller sports, like pall mall or rounders. A gleaming white retaining wall protrudes on the far end. When he strains his ears, he can hear the flow of the Thames beyond.

If he crosses the grass, and heads up those marble stairs next to the wall, he’ll be able to find the jetty.

Well, time to run off home, tail between his legs, to lick his wounds and never show his face outside again.

He sets off with tired resignation. After a few minutes’ walk, his eyes land on a figure lying atop the marble wall, bathed in silver. They’re in nothing but a loose white linen shirt, a pair of dark trousers, and a bird mask. One leg is bent up at the knee, while the other is lazily stretched out. The figure’s leaning up on their elbow, as they blow smoke rings from a long wood pipe. Before he thinks of ducking back out of sight, Quentin realizes he… knows that mask. He knows this man.

The magnetism from before is back. A fishing line, a rabbit snare, a goddamn drawbridge chain, has been hooked around his rib cage, and he can’t resist its pull.

Eliot sits up, once Quentin’s close enough to recognize. He slides his legs over to hang off the wall, revealing his bare feet. His hand goes up to his mask. Then his fingers twitch, and he drops his arm, settling it back on the wall for balance.

Apparently, he’s enjoying his nominal anonymity.

“Quentin Coldwater?” he says.

He’s some kind of spirit, isn’t he? Sent to torment him. Or tempt him. Or save him.

“Uh huh.”

Eliot chuckles, keeping his voice low. “Still no words? You sure you’re him?”

His mood’s infectious. As he draws closer, Quentin has to tilt his head back, gazing up at Eliot with the stupidest self-deprecating smile on his face. “Yeah. That’s. That’s me, I’m afraid.”

“Oh? Why’re you afraid?” Eliot leans forward in interest, setting his pipe down.

“I mean, I’m just a… just a lowly… player. And you, you’re…”

_Stunning. Incredible. Beautiful. Someone who couldn’t possibly want anything to do with someone as broken as I am._

Without warning, Eliot pushes off, landing on both feet. The grass muffles his landing, and every step he takes as he draws closer. His shirt’s untied at the top, and the open collar dips below his breastbone. There’s a dusting of black hair along his sculpted chest, and his nipples are peaked from the chill in the air. Sweet Jesus, Quentin’s mouth is starting to fucking _water._

“I’m Eliot,” he finishes. Like that’s the only way to end the sentence.

It’s almost a brag, but Quentin feels… _in on it_ , somehow. Just hours after meeting, with barely any words spoken between them, and Eliot is offering his first name. And without any suggestion of his rank. A given name is a sign of familiarity. Of intimacy. It’s a reassurance – that _we’re just ourselves, right now._

Well, that is, until Eliot looks away, his long black curls swaying as his head turns. “That’s too bad, if you’re a ‘lowly player,’” he says. “I thought you were my favorite poet. The man whose plays have captured my heart.”

“No, I’m him too!” Quentin steps forward, like Eliot might leave any second.

That gets his attention. As if he’d ever lost it. “Good.” Eliot turns back and smirks. The moon is casting half of his mask into shadow. “Come and sit with me, Quentin. We’re safe here.”

He’s using his first name too. Before he’s even offered it. Damn, that’s cocky.

Quentin watches as Eliot strolls over to the steps, heading back to sit up on the wall again. God, those fucking trousers aren’t hiding _anything_ . Either they’re an old pair, or he’s had them tailored that way and his ass was just that– And Eliot _has_ to know what he looks like, doesn’t he? That’s why he’s speaking like that, and walking like that, and–

Hold on. Stop. Quentin has to remember: “safe” is a hazy promise. Once you recognize another man who… who… um, wants what you want, it all comes down to what you can get away with. It comes down to how much time you have; to do whatever can, to scratch that itch, fill that need, before you’re discovered. You must know what to do, so you can survive.

This nobleman before him? He knows poetry. He knows how to persuade. Maybe that’s why Quentin’s being drawn in so easily. If Eliot’s just looking for a quick fuck in the dark, then he’s probably an expert on… er, how to make that happen.

Oh fuck. Fucking hell. Quentin’s brain starts to swim with dozens of… of… ideas.

The thing is, he _doesn’t_ know how to do any of that. Sure, he can definitely picture some of it. He’s been in brothels that… well. His first year in London, with the darkness closing in on his mind, he’d been looking for something, anything, to help. He didn’t know his feelings were acceptable, though, until Seb’s play showed him that they were, years later. But by then, Alice had caught his eye.

And if he doesn’t do the right thing now – make some sly innuendo, and flirt and fuck like the best of them – Eliot might shove him away, dismiss him outright. It could be Eliot’d just coincidentally found someone at his party with similar tastes. He might do this all the time. Whatever he wants from him – even if Quentin doesn’t put him off with his lack of experience – it might only be an any-mouth-will-do situation. Or a hand. Or just a body to rut against. One and done. On your way, commoner.

But if it was like that, then why would Eliot dance with him? Why would he lift him up, again and again? He said… he said… “his favorite poet.” He said his plays “captured his heart.”

Shit. Quentin really is Fortune’s fool. He’s had no time to rebuild his shattered walls, and he honestly doesn’t want to. He knows he’s going to hate himself for this later – he _knows_ – but right now? Right now, he’s tired. He’s been running, and hiding, and fighting for every spare scrap of goodness the world deigns to randomly toss his way. Even if Eliot – radiant, clever, spectacular Eliot – makes him feel good, and then leaves him shaking and hurt and hopeless afterward? He just. He just doesn’t care. Not after today. Please, just… just let him experience something good right now.

He joins him, settling down on Eliot’s left, their legs hanging over the edge. The marble is a shock of cold against his thighs. He has to beat back the image of Eliot putting his arm around him, drawing him close for warmth.

Not just beat it back. Pummel it away. Ball it up, and blast it out of a fucking cannon. Hello, they’re strangers. Something like that is just not… done.

They pass a long moment in silence. It’s hard to say who will speak first, now that they’re here. Now that they’re alone. They both stare out at this other world. This frozen, moonlit landscape that’s given them this moment together. Exposed. Unscrutinized. Free.

And free to fuck up, if Quentin’s not careful.

Words. He has to offer him his words. That’s what he wants.

But Eliot gets there first. “So, leaving you like that was… rather rude of me.”

Quentin pushes his messy, tangled hair out of his face. “Like what?”

“Like you didn’t matter.”

He’s afraid to turn his head. To see himself reflected in the eyes behind the mask. “It’s just like you said,” he reassures, offering a half shrug. “It wasn’t safe. With everyone watching. I mean, I don’t even know what’ll happen if they find us now.”

“Probably a quick death.”

“Well that’s comforting,” he deadpans.

Eliot leans back, gesturing at the manor up the hill. “Can’t have the neighbors gawking for too long,” he explains loftily, rolling his eyes. “I had to sneak out, so that’s another mark against me. My father, um, ‘encouraged’ me to go to my rooms for the night. I’d made enough of a scene.” He picks up his pipe. It’s still smoking, and as Eliot fits the mouthpiece between his lips, Quentin can’t resist anymore. He turns, and gets a vexing eyeful of the inhale. That steady, slow suck, as he hollows his cheeks. He holds the air, and then opens his mouth. Smoke comes trickling out and drifts upwards, caressing his mask like a lover’s touch. When he catches Quentin staring, he grins. “Want some?”

Yes. Please. Whatever Eliot wants to give.

No, come on. Quentin can’t just sit here. He has to be confident. Has to be the man Eliot thinks he is. He reaches out, extending his fingers further than he really needs to. He trails the pads of his fingertips across Eliot’s knuckles, over the edges of his moonstone ring, and down the slope of his fingers, as he takes the pipe. He sees a shiver go up his arm, but he doesn’t expect it to suddenly happen to him too, all the way up to his own shoulder. What _is_ that? That heady rush he’s feeling? Like he’s… he’s _powerful._ Like _he’s_ the one making _Eliot_ regain his footing.

There’s a heaviness in the air. A moment. A becoming. An overcoming.

Bringing up his left leg, Eliot turns his body to face him. Gravity pulls his open shirt over a little more, giving Quentin more to stare at. “Explain something to me.”

Yanking his eyes up, he has to dart them away again to stare at the faraway trees. Because Eliot had caught him in the act, and deliberately, wickedly, stared right back. “I’ll – I’ll do my best.”

The question comes after another long pause. “Why Fillory?”

Quentin blinks, opens his mouth, claps it shut, and blinks again. He feels like he’s been turned upside down.

Eliot leans forward. “It’s not a real place. Not on any map I’ve seen. But that’s where everything happens. The Chatwins are from London, but you spirit them away to this other land, every time. What’s so special about it?”

There’s a galloping in his chest. A breeze, from the river at their backs, ruffles through his hair. His stomach becomes a cave of butterflies.

Josh and Kady and the rest, they’d never asked him that. They just took it in stride. Don’t mind the whims of the author. As long as he gives us something good, he can write what he wants. The only one who’d asked, who’d always wanted to know more, who he’d invented it for in the first place, was T….

Was someone else.

He folds his lips inward, biting them. Eliot’s question is a complete poleaxe to the gut. He’s splintering, cracking. He’s about to spill so much out, he’ll be nothing more than an outpouring of stories and unnecessary details, for the rest of the evening, unless he seals himself back up.

He looks down at the pipe in his hands. “Um. So there’s… a couple of short answers, and then there’s a really long one. But if you’ve got this, like, idea in your head of what Fillory is, I don’t wanna ruin it for you. Like, just because I have an idea of what it is for me, that doesn’t mean it has to be that way for you.”

Of all things, he doesn’t expect Eliot to give him a patient shrug and a soft smile. “Give me whatever you’ve got.”

“Okay. Um. One of the, um, very, very minor, short, stupid, way-too-intellectual answers is…. So, like, the word itself is, um, a challenge. It’s three syllables, right? Stressed, unstressed, then stressed. It’s always, inherently, more than an iamb. Lon-DON. Pa-RIS. Those’re too easy. So, I, uh, I like how Fillory makes me figure out how someone talks about it, every time. How do I account for that third syllable. What can I fit on the line, whenever this odd word comes up.”

“That’s a short answer?” Eliot says dryly. Quentin bites his lip again, ready to apologize, to just leave it at that. But Eliot places his hand against his own chest, and taps a pentameter against his breastbone, like he’s reciting one of Quentin’s lines in his head. Then he corrects himself. Up-down-up. And the side of his mouth ticks up. He murmurs, “You put that much thought into things.”

It’s not a question, but a confirmation. Praise. Appreciation. Quentin feels like he’s glowing, like someone’s plucked a star from the sky and lodged it in his heart. Someone understands. And not just in a cursory way.

It’s like there’s this room inside himself he’s kept locked and in the dark for so long. This tiny admission was like finally opening its door to someone else. Offering them a candle to see with. And then that person suddenly takes the candle from him, and they’ve gone over to the fireplace, to build a blaze.

* * *

[ ](https://yourtinseltinkerbell.tumblr.com/post/630338627692593152/quentin-feels-like-hes-glowing-like-someones) [ ](https://yourtinseltinkerbell.tumblr.com/post/630338627692593152/quentin-feels-like-hes-glowing-like-someones) [ ](https://yourtinseltinkerbell.tumblr.com/post/630338627692593152/quentin-feels-like-hes-glowing-like-someones) [ ](https://yourtinseltinkerbell.tumblr.com/post/630338627692593152/quentin-feels-like-hes-glowing-like-someones) [ ](https://yourtinseltinkerbell.tumblr.com/post/630338627692593152/quentin-feels-like-hes-glowing-like-someones)

* * *

“Only sometimes,” he says, a blush coloring his cheeks.

Eliot’s chest shakes in awed, silent laughter. “And other times?”

“I. Um.” He puts the pipe to his mouth, and takes in a lungful of smoke. Possibly on accident, probably on purpose, he ends up inhaling way too much. His body erupts into a fit of coughing, and his eyes squeeze shut.

Laughing aloud now, Eliot’s broad hand thumps him between the shoulder blades. It’s only once he stops coughing, and his eyes stop watering, that Quentin notices he doesn't take his hand away. It’s grounding him, an imprint on his body. Like it’s shape will always be there, underneath, from this moment on.

Maybe. Maybe he’s actually allowed to… go over and help Eliot build that fire after all.

“Other times. It’s. It’s a place where anything good can happen to you,” he says.

Eliot quirks an eyebrow at him. “ _Titus Fillorius_ was something good happening?”

“Fine, I was in…a bit of a mood for that one,” Quentin grumbles with a frown. “And half of it wasn’t mine anyway.”

“I could tell,” Eliot says, that damn eyebrow still curving up on his forehead.

He huffs, gripping the fabric of his trousers. The hand on his back is moving, in the smallest of comforting circles. He soaks in the feeling, marveling at the casual, natural affection.

It’s impossible to believe, to comprehend. He’s bantering with some stranger he barely knows, but he’s so at ease. Like this happens all the time between them. Like they have all the time in the world for intricate conversations like this. He wants to trust Eliot even more. He wants to open up a pair of curtains in that room. Let more light pour in through one of its metaphysical windows. He won’t reveal the whole thing, not by a long shot. But this next part can’t go unsaid. 

He starts out slow, but his words end up cascading out of his mouth in a fantastic, exciting rush. “Yeah, but listen, like, with Fillory? The characters there, and the land itself – There’s… there’s _potential_ there. Good things _can_ happen. Even if it’s thanks to magic, or a talking bear, or whatever. It’s… it’s not England, and it’s not France, and it’s not Rome and it doesn’t have the same all-powerful laws, or the same ideas, or even the same, like, logic to solving a problem. Yeah, it’s only a fantasy, and in Fillory, bad things get in your way there too. All the time. Some really, really tough shit gets tossed at you. But when you keep pushing, keep trying, there’s always something _good_ waiting for you, in the end.”

His ears are ringing. Eliot isn’t saying anything. He’s gone too far, hasn’t he? He should’ve just kept his mouth shut. Should’ve just said something the witty nobleman wanted to hear. Instead, he spewed out this idealistic bullshit that no one seemed to believe in anymore, except him, and only on the days when his broken brain wasn’t coming after him.

The hand on his back falls away-

Shit. He should just go. Duck out now. Thanks for your attention, sorry for not living up to your expectations–

-and then Eliot’s hand is sliding over across the marble wall, and it covers his. It’s so reassuringly warm.

And Eliot’s drawing closer. He can feel the heat coming through his thin shirt from his shoulders and his chest, as he raises his other hand, and cups Quentin’s cheek. The hand is very cold, from being pressed against the marble for so long. But the temperature is starting to even out, matching his.

“That’s sort of beautiful,” he whispers.

“R-really?”

He doesn’t answer. He just draws closer.

Everything feels like it’s shaking, until Quentin realizes it’s just his own body. Fear and hope are galloping through every nerve inside him, all at once. His brain’s trying to override what’s happening. It’s saying he’s supposed to pull away, that he should check their surroundings one last time. He can’t have this. It’s not allowed.

But he wants it. More than anything he’s wanted since he came to London all those years ago. Because this impossible, fascinating, brave man wants _him._

Eliot’s hand brings his chin around, and he goes forward. His face would be close, so close, if not for that mask protruding between them. It’s almost like Eliot’s just now remembered it’s there. His breath, still tinged with the smell of smoke, wafts out beneath it, in faltering bursts. He even goes a little cross-eyed, seeing the pointed beak almost brushing Quentin’s nose.

At a snail’s pace, Quentin sets the pipe aside, and reaches up. He traces along the curve of the mask’s cheek. Brushes aside a loose, long black curl of hair. Eliot shudders, as he tucks it behind his ear, and trails his featherlight touch back across the mask again. He passes along the embroidered ridge, lined with flecks of gold and more precious stones, until he gets to the edge. He fits his thumb just underneath, and starts to lift.

Until Eliot changes his mind, pulling away. Another cold breeze comes between them. The hope evaporates, and the fear crashes into him. Like the room inside him has gone dark, the flames snuffed out, and the door’s slamming shut again.

“I’m – I’m sorry! I–”

Shaking his head, Eliot shushes him quietly. His eyes are pained, and he’s sporting a tight smile. Through gritted teeth, he says, “I want you to, Quentin. So much. _Everything_ inside me wants to. It’s just….”

Quentin’s hands start to twitch. He reaches out, his fingers spasming as he tries to hold them back. “No, I’m sorry, I read this wrong, I shouldn’t’ve assumed anything. I don’t even know what I’m doing.”

Eliot tsks at himself, just once. “And I thought I did.” With a frustrated sigh, he turns back to the sea of grass. Quentin tries not to flinch as Eliot tilts toward him, like he’s about to fall. But then he gently, carefully, rests his head on his shoulder.

This. This was what he wanted. Almost.

Okay, no it wasn't. The whole time, he’d been thinking of Eliot as this suave seducer of men. That’s not him. That was never the case. At least, not deep down. Or, not tonight, anyway.

Resting his head on his shoulder. The gesture is such a… such a familiar thing to do. Beyond a kiss. Beyond any passionate touches or words. Quentin is shocked by how much it matters to him. That they can still simply sit like this, breathing together. Eliot touches his arm a little while later. His thumb moves back and forth along his sleeve, like an apology.

“I really messed this up,” Eliot says eventually, raising his head and sighing again.

Quentin keeps his eyes fixed on the hedges he’d climbed out of, smiling without humor. “No. trust me, I. I’m the one who’s messed up. This whole day. All week. All month. All... all my goddamn life....” His voice drops, so the last sentence comes out more like a whisper to himself.

Eliot frowns. “I mean… I don’t know much about your life. But your lett– um, your little, _the_ little time we spent together. Seeing you. Dancing with you. Telling all of high society to go fuck itself for five damn minutes.” He bites his cheek, tries to say something else, and then grunts as he holds the words back. He turns his head away, exposing the beautiful slope of his neck and his tense, beaked profile. Like he’s the one who can’t look at him anymore. “Today’s been the bes– it’s been. Kinda fucking magical, okay?”

A sigh escapes Quentin, before he can stop himself. God, he’s such a selfish, morose moron. “Yeah. That dance was… it was pretty good,” he admits. Because Eliot isn’t wrong. It was amazing. It was better than he could have ever imagined. Why the fuck can’t he just be happy with that? Why can’t it balance the scales for once in his goddamn life?

Eliot’s still not looking at him. He taps his fingernails on the marble softly. “And before that. Your plays. I mean, they aren’t just–”

“No, yeah, they’re great,” he interrupts tightly. He brings his legs up, hugging his arms around them, hating himself for every word. “So why’s it so hard for me to believe in them - to believe in _everything -_ like I used to, huh?” He groans, his hands balling into fists. He shouldn’t’ve said that. “Sorry, I. That’s not– uh.”

“You… you don’t believe in them?”

He needs something else to do with his hands. Otherwise, he’s literally going to push himself up and run away from this already ruined conversation. Out of his purse, he grabs a shilling, and he flips it between his fingers. “Well, no, okay, I do. I am proud of them. I am. It’s kinda– And, like, rest assured, I have one in the works now, and it’s good. No, uuugh, it’s… it’s even got a chance to be great. Really. But. I. I just can’t… I can’t find the _reason_ to write anymore.”

Eliot finally swivels, crossing his legs and giving Quentin his full attention. Those damn hazel eyes flash behind the mask. “Okay, so what was your reason before? Why’s it not working now?”

He switches the coin to his other hand and repeats the trick. If he were a horrible person, he could mention Alice. It’d be a convincing deflection. Romantic heartbreak is an easy, acceptable answer. Eliot and Alice will never meet, anyway.

But he shouldn’t lie, and he knows he won’t. He can’t do that to her. She really had been right about everything. When he loves someone, it’s always with this… instant, almost unshakable dedication. That he could never, ever leave behind. And not just with romantic love. Anyone who found their way into his heart stayed there.

To be honest, he can’t find the reason to write anymore because… it’s August. The month that re-carves that gaping hole in his chest every year. He thought he was moving on. That he was getting stronger every year. Hurting a little less every day.

But it’s August again, and even though August will be over soon, and he’s _supposed_ to bounce back like he always does, it’s been worse this year than ever before, and he’s clearly not going to recover for a long time. He’s afraid he won’t recover at all, this time.

He’s really gonna do this, huh? He’s going to talk about this. Not with Josh, or Alice. Even Bacchus only knows a tiny fraction of the whole thing. Margo’s the only one who knows the whole story. And now he’s going to reveal some of it to someone he’s never met before. Who he’ll probably never meet again.

The coin drops, and it falls down, disappearing into the grass below.

“Right. Uh. Bef… hhhmmm… When I was a boy, before I’d been taught my letters, I… I had this, this feeling that I couldn’t shake. No matter what the church said, something inside me whispered there wasn’t a real reason, or explanation, for how and why we’re here. And it said that we all just turn to dust in the end anyway, and we don’t get remembered for very long, and that I was born selfish and self-centered and wrong and sick for no reason, and Heaven might just be this lie we tell ourselves so we can sleep at night, so. So, uh, considering all that. Why… why go on, you know?”

Eliot opens his mouth. Maybe he sees the naked dread in Quentin’s eyes. Or he just doesn’t believe whatever he has to say is good enough. He settles on a single nod, and Quentin is so, so thankful for that. The nod holds nothing but acceptance, as far as he can tell. Maybe even… not just sympathy. But empathy. He finds it gives him the courage to keep talking.

“My parents spoke to the doctor and the barber and the apothecary and the bishop, and they tried everything, and nothing helped. I kept trying to– uh. To find out whether… these thoughts I had were… were right. But at least when I went to school, I got to read, and then I had Chaucer, and Homer, and all these stories about people who go on journeys and… and _live_ to tell others about their adventures.”

A confused look crosses Eliot’s face.

“What?” Quentin asks, gnawing the inside of his cheek.

“Um,” Eliot hedges, “isn’t Chaucer the one who wrote about that cuckold who gets his ass… you know…”

A smile and an ugly snort burst out of Quentin before he can help it. “Yeah, he was.” Beneath the shadow of the mask, he can see Eliot’s trying not to grin too. Quentin hangs his head in embarrassment, and he nudges Eliot’s knee with his foot, a kick without any kick to it. He’s not sure if he’s trying to show annoyance – because, hello, that’s not the point – or appreciation, for Eliot’s reference. “He _also_ had stories about knights and kings and… anyway. I… I had to leave Stratford-on-Avon, one day, because…. Well, that’s a whole other story. But I came to London, and acting allowed me to actually live some of the stories. And then I started to write ones of my own. I got to invent entirely new people and new places. Shape the narratives for myself. Plan the beginnings, the middles, the endings. I make something out of nothing. Pure creation. Like magic.”

“Sounds a little blasphemous,” Eliot remarks.

Quentin’s face crumples.

“No!” Eliot backtracks, shifting in his seat. “That was a compliment. I meant that in a good… ugh. I mean, look at the two of us, right?” He sees Quentin’s eyebrow twitch, in that I-guess-you’re-not-wrong way, and he seems to realize that that’s not quite the best answer. He takes a deep breath, and considers his words carefully. “You know, I get it. I do,” he continues. “Because you got to ask your own questions, and then you could at least make your own answers.”

Quentin nods, but then he goes back to staring at his feet. “It’s just. Sometimes, especially lately, the old questions get bigger and louder and I… I go back. To the pointlessness being an answer. To hating myself. To not wanting to live, when one of the reasons I'm alive is- And I… I _can’t_ let myself think that way. Not for long. I won’t be able to keep resisting….” He sighs. After a long, drawn out moment, he admits, very quietly, before he can stop himself, “I’m just trying to find a way to live. And to live with myself.” He pauses, letting the admission fall between them. But he knows he can’t end it like that, so he finishes with, “So if you know how to do that, I’d really appreciate the help.” He throws in a bit of snark at the end, letting Eliot off the hook. Acknowledging he knows that there is no real answer.

Still, the next silent moment that follows is the worst one yet. Risking a glance upward, a stone drops in Quentin's gut. There’s panic in Eliot’s eyes. He definitely has no idea what to say. He scratches the back of his neck, looking back up at the manor.

Quentin readies himself. He’s finally done it. This’s definitely the end of their talk tonight. This’s exactly why he keeps this side of himself locked away. It’s so _wrong_ to throw that at someone else’s feet. Like he’s suddenly their responsibility to keep alive? How sickening.

Eliot grabs his pipe off of the stone. “I can’t say I’ve figured it out exactly, but I’m… I guess _I’m_ … living with myself these days? And that’s, uh, a fucking miracle _in of_ itself.” He takes a hit off the pipe, and propels the smoke out of his mouth without any artistry. Before Quentin can say anything, he plows ahead. “If we’re talking about, about living with something dark inside you then, oh, huh, well, guess it’s my turn to share then, ready? Good. I killed someone.”

The sentence robs him of all thought. It doesn’t occur to him to be afraid, or horrified; he just centers himself. He becomes one darkened soul, listening to another.

“I was fourteen, and he was this…. He… beat me up.” Eliot’s nothing more than a statue now. The only thing that moves is his foot beneath his knee, tapping the air with his toes. On his face, a rigid, forced smile. “Father used to run a little empire of shops, in another town, and we went to school together, and every day. Every. Day. Logan would….”

Quentin loosens his grip around his knees. He remembers. The boatman said the Waughs weren’t landed gentry. Eliot really was just a merchant’s son. Risen high, noble in every way that mattered, glittering and shining and playing the game like the rest of them, but also honest and generous with pieces of his soul. And with origins no less humble than any other man’s.

“So, I tried to get him back. Just once. There was this beekeeper at the edge of town. Logan was coming for me, and I ran through the hives. I’d been stung before. I knew it’d hurt, but it wouldn’t _really_ be my fault. And one stung him, like I wanted. And his face. He. He clawed at his neck, like he’d been poisoned. He wasn’t breathing. And I didn’t call for help. I just watched as he– as he died. And then I turned, and ran away, and left him there.” Eliot clears his throat, and goes for the pipe again. “So if you can find the reason for all that, whether it was me wishing him harm, or divine whimsy, or absolutely no reason at all, I’ll be glad to hear it.”

Quentin doesn’t even hesitate; he’s already reaching out. He takes Eliot’s hand again, winding their fingers together, connecting them like they’d been connected in the ballroom. He feels the muscles in the man’s arm spasm. Eliot nearly pulls away, until his resistance vanishes, and he returns the hold, tightly. Two darkened souls, who’ve found each other.

After a while, another curl of smoke leaves Eliot’s mouth. “I do know,” he says, “that you’ve helped me live with myself, Quentin Coldwater. Every bit of magic you write has been an answer. For a good number of my questions. I… recognized some of your pain. Recognized it as being… like mine. And you make these stories that, that use our pain. Burn it, as fuel, for light and warmth and hope. The world’s trying to push us off the edge and into the abyss. And you’re pushing back, forcefully. Better than all the rest.”

“Oh. Um. Really?”

What the fuck else is he supposed to say? He can’t just _agree_ with him. He’ll sound like an egotistical bastard!

Eliot moves his other hand, then, and holds their joined grasp in it, the pipe’s embers glowing between them. “Really,” he confirms. “You are not alone here. And it was you, Quentin, who taught me that truth. And one day, I’ll make it up to you.”

His hand is… Eliot’s drawing it up and–

“No, really, you don’t, that’s not–”

Eliot kisses Quentin’s hand, right over a prominent blue vein. And it’s not a simple, chaste peck. His lips open a little, and there’s the feeling, just a _hint_ , of the liquid heat of his mouth as it presses onto his skin. Lightning forks through him. If it wasn’t for the cold marble seat beneath him, his breeches would be getting much tighter around his hips. That hook in his ribs is drawing him forward again. He’s ready to fucking climb right onto Eliot's lap. Just because that mask is in the way, that doesn’t mean he can’t get to his neck or–

A way-too chipper, and much too loud, voice calls out, “Sir! Sir, are you there?”

“Oh, fuck you, Todd,” Eliot groans with a bitter smile. He abruptly uncurls his long legs and moves to stand. His hand doesn’t release Quentin’s, though, so he has to scramble up at the same time. His brain is still trying to catch up with some kind of… well-mannered… _something_ to say.

A torch flares to life behind a few towering maple trees. The firelight flickers, revealing the gangly butler as he spots them and jogs closer. Quentin instantly tries to pry his hand loose, but Eliot shoots him a look, and only holds on tighter, reassuring him with his lack of fear. He trusts this man; Quentin should too. “Call out any louder, Todd,” Eliot says, “and my father’s going to know exactly where we are.”

If Todd takes it as a scolding, he doesn’t show it. In fact, Quentin’s starting to suspect nearly anything Eliot’s tone implies, in general, is rarely what he’s actually trying to say. Instead of looking chastened, Todd only nods. “That’s what I was coming to find you for, sir,” he says, catching his breath. “Lady Waugh came to bid you goodnight. But she barged through the door before I could make excuses for you.”

With a quick sigh, Eliot turns to Quentin. “She’s going to send the guards out for me, then.”

“So this’s, like, a regular thing?” Quentin notes, surprising himself. There’s some kind of wryness in his own voice, one he didn’t know he could muster, under the circumstances. His heart lurches when Eliot’s eyes crinkle into a reproving smirk.

“The sneaking out part? Regular enough,” Eliot says. His eyes bore into Quentin’s, to emphasize the subtext there. “They’ll be on us before we know it,” he says, narrowing his eyes, like they’re conspirators in a coup. “Todd?”

“Yes, sir?”

“You left the second kitchen door open?” After another quick nod, Eliot instructs, “I need you to lead Mr. Coldwater to the dock. Any chance you feel like rowing him back to the city?”

Quentin grips his hand tighter. “What about you?”

“I’m sneaking my way back through enemy territory, of course. Rupert crossing the fairy nests wouldn’t be able to do better.”

God, Quentin’s going to have to be careful. He can’t let himself get a big head from all this. Purposefully referencing his work? Did Eliot _want_ Quentin to burst into flames?

What was it Seb once said, about sleeping with a–

_Sleeping_ with? Right, um, what the _fuck_ is his brain thinking?! How in the hell was he going to even _see_ Eliot again? Especially with–

But now that he’s landed the thought, he can’t just throw it back. He pictures himself climbing in through Eliot’s bedroom windows in the dead of night. Or finding each other at court. And spiriting him away, into a hidden nook in the palace gardens. Or just… holding his hand, playing with those lithe, supple fingers, as he whispers boundless compliments to him. Sending him secret sonnets, dedicated to his eyes and his hair and his body and his beautiful mind and his face and–

Fuck, Quentin needs to see his face. If he’s going to go the rest of his life, having spilt his darkest thoughts to this stranger-who-actually-now-knows-him-better-than-almost-literally-everyone, then… well, he can’t. He literally cannot fathom the idea, that he will leave Eliot soon, without knowing what he looks like.

No.

Not only that, his heart announces, with a painful thump.

He wants to know everything. Who else has he read? What does he think of them? Does he have a favorite myth? Is he right or left-handed? Does he have a favorite season? Is there a dessert he favors? A favorite meal? What does he dream about? What does he look like, when the morning sun peaks in through the curtains, way too early, right in their eyes, and he buries his head on top of Quentin’s soft stomach and refuses to get up, because their time is better spent making love, and poking fun at each other’s morning breath, and….

Damnit. Stop it. What if this is…. Is this just another infatuation, like he’d had with Alice?

Is he just casting out tethers, desperate for anything to hold onto?

He has never experienced anything _close_ to what they’ve shared tonight. In the span of a few hours, they’ve blurred the lines of what they are to each other a dozen times over. He’s not ready for this to end. It’s not fair. It’s not right. On a fucking _cosmic_ scale.

“You’ll be back home in no time,” Eliot is saying, “Todd’s a twig, but he’d probably give the Argonauts a run for their money. Try not to get seasick, yeah?”

Eliot squeezes his hand, and it jolts him out of his spiral for only a moment, before he’s right back in it again. They’re about to separate. What can he possibly say? Thanks for the chat? See you around? Loved the dance? Sorry for being a stupid, stuttering idiot? Please, don’t make me leave you?

Tilting his head, Eliot’s eyebrows crease. He takes in the stress Quentin’s barely hiding.

Quentin looks down at their hands. He wills the fingers to let go. Over and over, he tries to get the muscles to move.

“This isn’t the last we’ll see of each other,” he hears. A finger slides underneath Quentin’s chin, and it lifts him up. To confront that stoic, beaked mask again. But the eyes behind it are so alive. Their dark, dilated pupils are darting all over his face. Until they settle, meeting his gaze, and hold it there. Eliot’s thumb drifts over his bottom lip. “And,” Eliot continues, “I’m not saying I have a _vested_ interest in your writing or anything…”

Quentin can’t decide whether he wants to laugh or whimper.

“But I hope your pen finds its way into your hand very, very soon.” Eliot’s voice dips down low, and he leans in, a scant few inches away.

The laugh bubbles out of Quentin’s chest before he can stop himself. How does Eliot _do_ that? He’s a fucking alchemist – turning every leaden, apprehensive second into these pure, hot, golden moments.

Gathering his courage, he whispers, “I’ll be thinking of you when it does.”

Eliot’s eyes flare, and he grips his hand so hard, he swears it’ll bruise. They release each other only after Todd clears his throat at the two of them.

“Safe journey, Quentin.”

“Boldness be your friend, Eliot.”

Q hasn't just quoted another one of Rupert’s lines. It’s the first time he’s said Eliot’s name aloud. The last he sees of him, before he’s swallowed by the dark, is Eliot's head turning. To flash him a quick, surprised, delighted smile.

Once he’s gone, Todd dips the torch to the right, and they set off. The crickets go quiet as they traipse through the woods. The wind plays with the tops of the trees now. The leaves rustle like rainfall above their heads.

“Will he be alright?” Quentin can’t help but ask.

Todd doesn’t look back to check, but he does put a finger to his lips. Which strikes Quentin as flat-out stupid. Their torch draws more attention than any sound ever could. It’s only once they climb into the rowboat, Quentin holding the light as Todd casts off their mooring, that he bursts out with a loud, eager answer.

“Mr. Waugh’s going to be absolutely fine,” he says, his mouth splitting into a dazzling smile.

Quentin jumps at the sudden noise. “Oh. Good,” he bites out.

Todd mans the oars with confidence. After a few swift strokes, they’re carried along by the westward current. There’s not much to see, beyond the glow of the torch and the moonlight washing over the water. They pass by a few other private docks on both banksides, but they’re either dark, or they have a single man lazing about on guard duty.

Not knowing what else to say, Quentin tilts his head up. He picks out a few constellations among the stars.

It’s not like he can ask Todd whether he does this sort of thing often. He’s not sure what answer he’ll get. And, Q decides, he doesn’t want one anyway. Besides, someone that Eliot trusts this much? Wouldn’t just dole out answers carelessly.

The stars, though? They put him at ease. As his thoughts drift with the current, he finds he actually wants to think of Fillory again. It’s easier. And it doesn’t hurt right now. Like a balm has been pressed onto an old, sharp ache. Not only when he thinks about the idealistic, overall picture he’d shared with Eliot tonight. But also when he considers the place itself.

His mind doesn’t shy away from it all anymore. He finds he can imagine how the sky looks there, if he were to wander its hills and valleys. He starts to wonder what would King Brian think, if he were staring up at Fillory’s stars. If his own mind was nearly as fractured as Quentin’s. If he needed the peace they offered too. Pipe in hand, he might look for signs and portents in them, like an Earth-bound astronomer. So he can lead his people, lead his friends, towards hope. Towards a future as bright as it used to be, before their magic was lost.

Or locked away? Maybe someone, or something, turned off magic, every so often. Seb had mentioned the gods….

Quentin’s eyes drift, and he recognizes the Seven Sisters in the darkness. An odd sight. They’re normally a winter constellation. And Orion, always on his quest to pursue them, is nowhere to be found. The Equinox is still weeks away, and the giant hunter isn’t due until at least the fall.

But there’s something in that. A great man, pursuing golden light. If magic is locked away, then–

“We’re here!” Todd says.

His announcement is punctuated by the thud of the oars dropping to the bottom of the boat. Quentin’s eyes refocus, and he spots the London docks, lit by their own constellation of reflected torchlight, drawing closer. He tucks his idea away, next to the image of the peacock, and helps the butler secure their mooring before he climbs out.

“Thank you,” he says, straightening his jacket. He fumbles around his belt for his coin purse, opening it to offer a tip. But Todd waves that away, assuring him any friend of Eliot’s doesn’t need to worry about that sort of thing.

“I am?” Quentin says, his voice just shy of cracking, “His. His friend, I mean?”

There’s a healthy amount of confusion on Todd’s face. But instead of hastily offering platitudes, his eyes soften, and he nods. “Haven’t seen him that happy in a long time, Mr. Coldwater,” he says. “And that’s worth more than I can say.”

“Oh. Um. Well, he’s. He’s worth making happy,” Quentin says. His cheeks burn at the admission, but he suddenly feels like Todd is the only person who would truly know that he means it.

“Definitely,” he replies. “Have a good night, Mr. Coldwater.”

“’Night. Hope you get back safe.” He starts to walk along the planks, letting his mind drift back to Brian, and–

Brian!

He bolts back over, just before Todd unties the boat.

“My letter!” Quentin says. “You gave your cousin my letter?”

“My cousin?”

Quentin pales. “Benedick? You said you’d give it to him.”

It takes an absurdly long moment, but then Todd plasters on another one of his smiles. “Oh yeah. For sure. Gave it to him as soon as I could.”

“And?”

“And what?”

Trying not to grit his teeth, Quentin hugs his arms around his body. “Did he say he’ll accept? That he’ll come to The Whitespire tomorrow?”

Todd’s eyes drift to the side, like he’s struggling to drag up the memory. “Well, he didn’t exactly _tell_ me to tell you that he’ll be there.”

Quentin deflates. “Sure. Sorry to bother you. I guess I’ll just hope for the best.” He wishes Todd another good night, waving him off as he sets out to return to the Waugh estate, rowing in earnest against the current.

The journey back to his rooms is a long one. Quentin’s limbs are about ready to collapse. His mind is no better. He gets through the door, and almost faints down onto his mattress. At the last second, he swerves over to a cupboard, wolfing down a few hefty chunks of bread, and a few bites from a chunk of hard cheese.

But when he turns around, his desk is right there. Blank parchment rests invitingly on its surface. Half a dozen feather quills are scattered all over.

He remembers the hazy flurry of words he’d scratched out last night. The ten pages he’d thought were so polished, so ready to be brought to life.

It’d be so easy to go to bed now. He’s more than earned it. He might even rise with the sun. Get some writing done early in the morning, before heading over to the theater.

But he knows he’s not going to. Not with a certain nobleman’s words ringing in his ears. Not with that nobleman’s heavy past secreted away in his heart of hearts.

He stretches, cracking his wrists, and massages the calluses on his middle and ring fingers. As he pulls out his chair, he doesn’t zero in on his heartbeat this time, waiting for the rhythm to come. He simply closes his eyes, and lets his memories wash over him. He doesn’t try to shy away from his ineptitude, and his absurd hopes. He doesn’t overexaggerate the beauty of being treasured. He doesn’t belittle himself for how much he shared.

Gratitude floods over him, for the unexpected company he’d found tonight, for the man who’d revealed Quentin wasn’t as alone in this inexplicable universe as he thought he was.

Finally, he brings up the ideas he’s been toying with all night. He pops off the cork on his inkpot, dips a quill into the darkness, and begins, painstakingly, empathetically, to shape the story. The tale of Brian, the magician-king. And Nigel, his astonishing, fantastical counterpart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An Aside to the Audience: 
> 
> Plum is actually the name of the musician Shakespeare runs into during this part of the movie. Again, one of those things that was too perfect not to do. Also, I love Plum as a character, period. She'll pop in again a little later. *John Mulaney voice* As a treat.
> 
> Eliot is a little off with his Chaucer reference here. In "The Miller's Tale," it's not the cuckold who gets a red hot poker jammed up his butt, but another adulterer. Still, he gets points for making Q laugh and trying to impress him with his book-learnin'.
> 
> Eliot's words about "using their pain" and "burning it as fuel" are from Dean Fogg in the first Magicians book. 
> 
> "Boldness be my friend" is from _Cymbeline_.


	7. Act Two, Scene Three

Day One. The Whitespire isn’t quite humming with rehearsal energy. Not yet. Half of the actors don’t have their roles. Or even any pages to read them off of. There is, however, the occasional burst of excitement. The stage-keeper has unlocked the cabinet of blunted swords.

Bingle and Victoria circle each other on the ground floor. They both advance, lunging into a speedy parry-repost routine. They kick up dust with their footwork, and the sunbeams from the open sky pierce through the hazy air, lending a soft glow to the theater’s house. They check their scripts as they plot out the fight, blow for blow. Stage combat is their specialty. They know how to choreograph this dance better than any ballet master.

Rafe and Abigail sit together in the audience. They’re talking quietly with each other, although they clap whenever Victoria lands an impressive hit, sometimes massaging their wrists afterwards. When Quentin had dropped off the entirety of Act One this morning, they’d been the ones to painstakingly rewrite all the copies. Whichever parts they’ll eventually be assigned, they aren’t in the first few scenes, so they’ve distributed their work to the others.

Josh has parked himself on the opposite side of the house. He’s propped up his feet on a bench, with Quentin’s original pages spread out over his lap.

Fogg observes from a seat nearby, idly spinning a slightly sacrilegious globe, his own spoils from raiding the prop closet. “You seem perplexed, Mr. Hoberman,” he says, giving the sphere a turn.

Josh sputters, then composes himself. “You would be too,” he grinds out, flipping through several sheets. “I told Quentin. I told him. Comedy, and a dog. And what’s he given me?” He flips another page. “None of this– well, okay, fine, the Great Cock’s actually good. Dunno how we’re gonna pull that off, but they’ll eat it up. The rest of it though? The groundlings better forget to bring their pickings.”

Fogg trails his finger over an ocean, bringing the globe to a halt. Another push sends the sphere in the opposite direction.

“Do you think it’s funny?” Josh asks.

Instead of answering right away, Fogg pries out some folded parchment from his pocket. He taps it in the air in Josh's direction. "I started out as a pirate king," he says. "Now, I'm a college dean. It's goddamn hilarious."

"Exactly.” Josh shoots a look over at his playwright. Quentin’s answering a few questions from Harriet and Zelda. From what he’s overheard, the plan is for both women to handle the Prologue, Harriet signing the words while Zelda speaks them. It’s actually a really good idea, Josh admits. Harriet’s more than earned the chance to take Center Stage. On top of that, nothing else sets the scene for a land of magic quite like her intricate language.

His frustration dials down a little. He reminds himself that Quentin’s never let him down before. He’s taken coin from the highest bidder lately, sure. But it’s not like Josh wouldn’t do the same, under the circumstances. When Quentin makes his way over, Josh decides to let it all slide, and he fixes a pleasant grin on his face.

“Hey, Josh.” Quentin stops by the box’s wall, craning his neck up. As he pushes his hair off his forehead, Josh spies an oncoming, apologetic grimace. “So, uh, my Brian’s still not here yet.”

Josh’s face plunges right back into that deep scowl he’s been favoring. Quentin had been talking this guy up all morning. Benedick Johnson, eunuch, ridiculously naturally talented, makes the angels cry, yada yada. They’ve already delayed their start by an hour. “And do you have a backup plan?”

Gnawing at his bottom lip, Quentin surveys the rest of the actors. A long moment drags on even longer, and Josh takes that as his answer.

Chaos erupts when that fiery-haired actress from yesterday bolts in from backstage. She jumps to the ground, raising a sword high. Bingle and Victoria leap apart as she playfully bats their weapons back and forth.

“Stop! Stop!” Quentin shouts at her.

The redhead drops her arm. “Aw, I thought we were practicing!”

Quentin glances at the other two. Once Victoria and Bingle both shake their heads, he rounds on the woman. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

She beams at him. Her words come across like she’s talking to a child. “I just said: we’re practicing! I’ve got nothing else better to do,” she shrugs. “You didn’t give me any lines.”

“Yeah, okay, right,” he spits out, barely keeping himself in check.

This morning’s been a bit of a disaster without Benedick. Not to mention Josh is very pissed off at him right now, since they’re still four acts short. Normally, Quentin would be professional about this. He’d make sure his anxiety and anger didn’t find themselves an outlet here. But endangering her fellow actors, because she had nothing better to do? It’s the perfect reason to let her have it.

“What’s your name?”

The woman strikes a pose, lifting the sword behind her back to rest it across her shoulders. “Poppy Kline. Figured you wanted me for Ethel. You know, pirate’s daughter? What pirate’s daughter doesn’t start a sword fight on her first day, right?”

He really should be letting Josh handle this. It’s not his job to reprimand the actors.

“Like hell you are,” he says anyway, with nothing but contempt. “You’re damn lucky those two know what they’re doing. They disengaged the second something went wrong. ‘Cause that’s what they’ve been _trained_ to do.” He sweeps his hand across the theater, indicating everyone else in the house. “No one picks up a sword until they have permission. No one. Every second of a stage fight is planned out, to the smallest detail. Practiced again and again. It’s just as dangerous as a real fight. This isn’t a game!” He turns around to glare at Josh, waiting for him to back him up.

A pair of unfamiliar faces – a thin, vicious-looking woman, and her hired muscle – have appeared out of nowhere. They’re whispering right in Josh’s ear, and he’s not paying Quentin the slightest bit of attention. His body’s tenser than… well, than a man with a cashflow problem, who’s come face-to-face with his collectors.

Quentin swallows back everything else he wants to say. It’s not up to him to fire an actor either. He doubts they can afford to lose anyone. Especially when the one person he _does_ need to be on that stage is nowhere to be seen. Sighing, he rubs his temples and turns back to Poppy.

“’Kay, fine. It’s not a game,” she’s saying. She at least has the decency to drop the sword off of her shoulders. “You gonna give me something to do then? I don’t wanna waste time here.”

“I need you to leave.”

“What?”

“The door’s right there.” He points at the open public entrance behind him. “Either you can wait outside, and let Josh have a word with you about your future here, or you can just go.”

Poppy scoffs, looking around at the others in the room. No one speaks up in her defense. She tosses the sword to the ground and starts walking. On her way out, she purposefully bumps into Quentin’s shoulder, throwing him off balance.

Great. Just what this morning needs.

The rest of the cast all eye him with varying degrees of sympathy. They really do need to get started. Josh is still occupied, so it falls to him to make something out of this mess. He heads over to the stage and puts his hands on the boards, looking to vault himself up. Another pair of hands offers him a leg-up – Victoria, smiling fondly, as she bends down with her fingers laced together. Whispering his thanks, he lets her give him a boost.

“Alright, everyone!” he calls out. They haven’t stopped staring at him, so there’s really no need to get their attention. Even Josh and the unknown woman have stopped talking. “Um. Sorry about the rough start this morning. And thanks. For your patience. While we’re all getting, you know, underway.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he spots Zelda translating for Harriet. Once she finishes, Harriet nods at him, which he takes as a good sign. He’s never been one for speeches. Yeah, the playwright’s technically the reason why a cast assembles in the first place, but he’s not exactly the one paying them. Now that he’s up here, he’s got to say at least something. Can’t have anybody else leaving, if they decide all of this isn’t worth their time too.

“We’re about to… embark! On a great… uh, voyage. And you’ll all be getting parts; or even, uh, double-cast, if need be.”

Apparently all the good words inside him went into the script last night. Nothing good’s coming out. This’s probably the least inspiring thing he’s ever said in his life.

“I’ll be coming around and, um, giving you what I’ve got planned. And what’s to come will, you know–”

“HEY NONNY NONNY, MOTHERFUCKERS!”

Quentin starts, then breaks into a smile that stretches from ear to ear. At the public entrance stands Margo Hanson, and behind her, all the Admiral’s Men, back from their tour.

The entire cast cheers, and many of them rush forward to shake hands with their old friends. Quentin humbly stays behind. He goes to sit at the lip of the stage, waiting for his turn. This isn’t the first time she’s saved him. And he’s well aware it won’t be the last. 

Margo looks like a goddess. The summer sun has done wonders for her already gorgeous complexion. Golden highlights weave through the locks of her long, wavy hair. If Quentin _was_ writing a pirate play, she’d be top-billing. He spies new pearl-drop piercings in her earlobes, and she’s dressed in a white tunic over a brilliant crimson corset and matching jacket, studded with silver buttons. Her tight-fit leather trousers are less of an indecency, and more of a testament to her well-known open rebellion against skirts. All she needs is the eyepatch.

She offers lofty half-nods to the people tripping over themselves to welcome her back, and waltzes over to the stage. She glares at Quentin, who’s still trying to school his face into neutral territory. “You got a part for me, Coldwater?” she demands, her voice carrying all the way up to the third-story balcony.

She knows he does.

And _he_ knows she wouldn’t want him to bow and scrape like the rest of them. He’s worked long and hard for that right. Plus – and she’d cut his dick off if he ever told anyone this – she’s got a soft spot for Fillory, almost as much as he does. Almost like he’s her favorite playwright or something, of all the mawkish things.

“Might have,” he says. “You want one?”

“What’s. The Goddamn. Role. You limp-dick shit stain.”

Quentin bites his lip, showing his teeth in a very shit-eating grin. But she’s trying not to smile too. Damn, he’s really missed her.

Before he can answer, a new voice calls out. It’s the strange woman. The one who seems to have Josh on a leash. She’s stepped up to the balcony with her arms crossed. “And who are you supposed to be?” she scowls.

The entire theater goes dead quiet. Margo pivots in a perfect circle, and she holds up a perfectly manicured finger. “Allow me to educate your very, very sorry ass. I am Jane Chatwin. I am Heronima. I am Tamburlaine. I am Mephistopheles.”

There’s a blip of recognition in the woman’s face. Her blue eyes widen, and she shifts her stance on the floor. The wooden boards creak beneath her.

When she hears this, Margo offers her a rancorous smile. She continues, with a voice as soft as a dagger drawn from its sheath, “I’m a legend across England. Other people are specks of dust, compared to me. Other people dream of the days where _I’ll_ remember _them_. Now who the fuck are you?”

The woman drums her nails on her arm. “Marina Andrieski. I’m a stakeholder.”

Margo lowers her finger, leveling it like a crossbow, to point right between Marina’s eyes. “Then you can stay. As long as you stay fuckin’ quiet.”

Marina’s eyes light up with fury. From some unknown, hidden depths, Josh miraculously finds the balls to grab her shoulder and shoot her a warning look. Eventually, it dawns on her: the play will tank if Margo walks out on them. And not just her – the Admiral’s Men follow wherever she goes. She slaps Josh’s arm away, and retreats back to the bench.

Well, now’s not a good time to make the tension any worse. A little bowing and scraping might actually do some good here. Quentin pushes himself off the stage and slides to the ground. Coming up behind her, he announces, “Margo, we are in desperate need of someone for Janet, High Queen of Fillory.”

Margo turns her head just slightly, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye. “And what’s your play called again?”

“ _The Tragedy of Janet the Destroyer_.”

“It is?” Josh calls from the back.

“You have the front page right in front of you, Josh,” Quentin reminds him in a singsong voice. He doesn’t dare take his eyes off Margo.

Everyone holds their breath again, as Margo relishes their anticipation. She sighs. “Fine. I’ll play her,” she says, bored. Over her shoulder, though, she winks at him. A little something for him, and him only.

In thanks, Quentin’s the first to start up a new cheer, and everyone else joins him. They have enough actors to rival Kady and the Chamberlain’s Men now. Finally, something’s gone right this morning.

The Admiral’s Men start pairing off with some of the other cast members, hoping to catch up and look at the script. Idri and Micah drift towards Lipson and Sunderland, while Idri’s son Ess makes a beeline over to Skye to introduce himself. Quentin nearly moves to rescue her, but someone taps him on the shoulder.

It’s Mike, expectantly holding out a hand for him to shake.

Rather presumptuous of him. All the same, Quentin makes sure to take it right away. Inwardly, his brain’s running through a few permutations, and he’s not too confident with what he lands on. He’ll probably have to cast Mike opposite Benedick. Idri or Ess could do it, in theory. But they tend to favor aggressive objectives. They like to play conquerors, and that’s not quite the dichotomy the play needs. Sure, Micah’s easy on the eyes, but he fades into the background of every scene.

Mike, on the other hand, doesn’t only have his looks. He brings a degree of softness and acceptance to his noble roles. An inherent wisdom, even though he’s only a little older than Quentin himself.

Then again, if Benedick doesn’t show, Mike might just end up being Brian, which Margo will end up bitching about. She often complains she can only act with him in small doses. He doesn’t give her much to work with as a scene partner, apparently. So maybe she’ll have to wind up in Nigel’s part of the story? Who knows.

“Good to see you, Mike,” Quentin says when they release each other. He doesn’t mention the scraped, bruised knuckles on the actor’s hand, hoping they don’t mean anything too serious. “You still ready to try anything?”

Mike scratches the back of his head. “I’ve been doing the same three shows for months now. I’ll wrestle a live bear if I have to.”

“Coldwater!” Margo barks. “Where’s my script?”

Mike eyes her over his shoulder, and huffs, “I’d better leave you to it.”

“I’ll come find you in a few minutes,” Quentin says, “To tell you about your part and… stuff.”

Mike claps him on the shoulder, making his way over to a set of nearby stairs and heading backstage.

Now that Quentin’s not occupied, there’s really nothing holding his panic back. At every spare moment, he’s been sending up prayers, to anyone who’d listen. Where in the high holy _fuck_ is Benedick? More than once, he has thought about ducking out, taking a boat over to the Waugh manor like yesterday, and scouring the grounds. The idea’s got just enough downsides to keep it a fantasy. Ranging from: what if he happens to miss Benedick on his way over… to the heady, terrifying, wonderful thought of coincidentally seeing Eliot again.

The skin of his hand prickles. Right over the spot where Eliot had pressed his lips, half a day ago.

“COLDWATER!”

He jogs toward the public entrance. “Be right back!” he shouts. “I’m trying to find your scene partner!” He emerges out on the street, just in time to miss her searing reply.

This side of the theater faces several market stalls. Most of them are selling legs of mutton or turkey, and there’s the occasional smithy, tanner, and cobbler. It’s prime real estate. The shopkeepers know they’ll get business from the players, and from the crowds their shows inevitably draw. Among the customers, he doesn’t spot any tall, lanky figures that he recognizes. There’s no one down the road heading straight for The Whitespire, either.

The only familiar face is fucking Poppy Kline. She’s sitting atop a wooden fence a few yards off.

“Josh on his way?” she calls out mockingly.

“He is,” Quentin lies, trying not to give her more than a passing glance.

Her legs swing beneath her, and she pushes a lock of her hair behind her ears. She takes a moment to consider him, then tries to get his attention again, clearing her throat. “I was in _Titus Fillorius,_ you know. They cast me as one of the kids who got their head chopped off. Nice trick, the way they did that.”

His eyes pointedly don’t stop searching the street. “Uh huh. Had fun with it, did you?”

This is the second time that play’s been mentioned in as many days. He really isn’t proud of it. Josh had thrust him into collaborating with some other playwright, George something, because London had been going through a revenge-play craze at the time. He hadn’t seen the other man since, and was glad to be rid of him.

“Fuck yeah, I did,” she says. She sticks her chin out. “Made me wanna write something just like it. All that blood. And that fucking pie! How’d you even come up with something like that?”

“Can’t remember.”

“What about that woman being eaten by–”

“Wasn’t my idea.”

“Really? Huh. This one gonna have anything like it?”

“No.”

“Well that’s dumb! You, like, have to have _something_. It’s gonna be so boring if you don’t.”

He’s sick of this. He’s sick of her. Margo and Josh screaming at him for the rest of the day is far more preferable. “Look, Ms. Kline? Don’t even bother waiting for Josh. You’re welcome to stick around as a stagehand, but I don’t want you in my play.”

“Uh-hum, sorry, what?”

He finally turns to her. “You saw who came through just now, didn’t you? Margo Hanson. We’ve got everyone we need. You’re not a good fit, you don’t have the experience, and I’m not writing this piece just to entertain you.”

“A fucking stagehand?” Poppy repeats.

“That’s what I said. Take it or leave it.”

He heads back inside. The clamor of the street quiets as he comes to a stop by the wall of The Whitespire’s first ring. Margo’s taken up her usual spot in the back, making sure everyone projects loud enough. He readies several excuses and apologies for her.

“We’re gonna have to cut around King Brian for now,” he murmurs in her ear. “We’re still figuring out who’s gonna play him.”

She turns a page of the script in her hands, stolen right from under Tick’s nose. “Some guy came in through the back with a letter you wrote,” she says. “That wasn’t him?”

“What?”

On the stage, Quentin can only see Fogg and his globe. He’s bowing his head as Lipson and Sunderland, playing professors at the magician college, cross upstage to exit the scene.

“I was gonna send Abigail out for you,” Margo’s saying. “Had to make sure. ‘Cause, correct me if I’m wrong, Q? But you want some theatre _baby_ for your lead?”

“He’s not a baby, he’s–”

A new face enters through the center arch. Benedick crosses over to lean against a pillar, wearing the same faded blue clothes from yesterday. He positions himself at a quarter profile to the audience. And, thank God, he’s left that fucking hat behind.

His face is smooth, without a hit of stubble. And those cheekbones? That jawline? Any sculptor in Milan would sell their own mother to have that in their studio. A hawkish, pointed nose slants in the middle of his face. Leading down to a dipping, teasing cupid’s bow, and soft, pale pink lips. His wide forehead is adorned with a wavy, rakish tassel of black hair. The rest, he’s styled short around his ears, freshly cut, although the barber left him with some very cultivated sideburns. When he tilts his head, the sun reveals his hair’s more of a deep, dark brown, not black at all. Quentin wants to run his fingers through it, to see how the light changes it, from dawn to dusk. He wants to nestle a crown on his head, kneel down, and–

“No drooling, Coldwater,” Margo murmurs.

He reminds himself to breathe. And he scolds himself, viciously, for getting swept up like that. The last time he went full-on _enraptured_ , he’d chased Benedick halfway across the countryside, and that misadventure somehow turned into a midnight rendezvous, with a mesmeric nobleman he might never see again.

What the hell is his heart doing? Wasn’t it satisfied with last night’s star-crossed, mutual-pining, soul-baring insanity? Did it _have_ to latch onto yet another (probably unavailable) stranger? And not just that. He doesn’t even know if he... well, since he’s a eunuch, and eunuch’s–

He stops the thought right there. All of that is Benedick’s business. Not his. Quentin won’t do him any kindnesses assuming one thing or another. Maybe he’ll get the chance to ask some questions later. To make sure he can understand… anything that needs to be understood.

Right now, he needs to see if the man’s audition was a well-practiced one-off, or if he’ll be able to carry the entire show on his back.

Although another part of Quentin, the part that sounds so much like T – like _someone_ he used to know – feels like he’s been away from his desk too long. He only just stopped writing hours ago, his hands still cramped and sore. But he needs to get back to it.

As if they were living, breathing people, he can practically _feel_ Brian and Nigel in the back of his brain. They’d just met when he’d ended Act One. They were nigh-on _demanding_ to speak with each other more. To taunt each other, tease each other, and puzzle over an impossible task together. He just needs to get a quill in his hands. To reconnect to that _conduit_ he’d channeled last night. Eliot’s encouragements and his flirting and his honesty, for Quentin and Quentin alone, had breathed new life into his dying creativity. Pages and pages and _pages_ of ink had come tumbling out of him. God, _that_ is what he’s been missing all these weeks. That brief flash, from his hopes for Alice, seems so empty, compared to this. There’s a fire in his blood, in his sinews.

He wants to share his joy with Eliot, with Margo, with T… with…

With someone he loves.

But he has to watch this first.

Writing it all is one thing. Seeing Benedick bring it all to life? Quentin couldn’t move now if he tried.

Fogg bows low. “Good morrow, my lord.”

Leaning his head back against the pillar, Benedick stares up at the ceiling. He grips his script in his hand, and shakes his head at the heavens. “Good morrow, wise dean,” he says with a sigh. “Was that your staff that went hence so fast?”

“It was,” Fogg says. “The loss of magic hath reached our college.”

Benedick briefly checks his pages, then returns to his resignation. “For seasons, The Wellspring withholds her gifts. We mages thirst in her drought, suffering for want of that which feeds our very souls. And while my people scream for aid each new day, the gods respond with _mocking_ silence.”

His voice. Just like yesterday, Quentin feels it pierce through his breastbone, right into the chambers of his heart. Melodic, higher than expected, but no less powerful. Brian has to give exposition; it’s the bane of every first act. But Benedick is showing how Brian is holding himself in check, and showing his empathy for his people, through this little beat.

“Hath no oracle given you answers?”

Benedick pushes himself off the pillar. “If you have any hope to offer, master, prithee: withhold it not,” he says through gritted teeth. After he reads the script again, he growls, “Neither scouring the lofty stars, nor digging through Neitherlands stacks, nor e’en interpreting damnéd _tea leaves_ ceases to fill my ev’ry waking hour. This onus doth drag me beneath an ocean of grief. My people cannot welter in the dark. Not after bathing in light all their lives.”

Fogg checks that they are alone, then crosses and bends his head close. “Hath my lord sent word to Kimber? Your true friend is a student of Knowledge, god-touched.”

“I cannot burden her with such a weight.”

A hearty chuckle escapes Fogg’s mouth. “Your Hedge witch friend doth _function_ under the gravity of woes such as these. ‘Twas she who first noticed our magic’s scarcity.”

Benedick shakes his head again in refusal, moving to leave.

Fogg calls after him, “Forgive me, sire, but she’s arrived just now.”

He stumbles to a halt, his entire body freezing in place. A little overexaggerated for Quentin’s taste, but Margo hasn’t shouted at them to stop the scene yet. It’s a minor thing; they’ll smooth it out in the future.

That line was Skye’s cue. She’s normally a messenger or a servant, but Quentin wanted to give her a shot at something more. Looks like she’s taking it. Gone are her meek, folded hands, her downcast eyes, and her hunched shoulders. She’s marching in, with a spring in her step, holding some prop ledger in her hands. Confident, proud, and free. Fogg counter-crosses with a wry wave of his hand, saying he’ll leave them to it.

“What sadness lengthens my dear Brian’s hours?” Skye says with a teasing bow, like she knows something he doesn’t. “Hath all hope been lost to thee?”

Benedick snorts, moving away from her. “Thy friend tarried too much in the sun, sweet Kimber. Ev’ry youthful summer I spent with thee in The Wellspring’s grace prepared me not for the winter of her discontent. Hope rests on a distant shore, and we are caught in Despair’s riptides, which pull us hence.” He drags his feet nearly to the edge of the stage and crouches low, like he’s getting ready to sit down and dangle his feet over the edge. He presses his eyes into his palms.

The sight washes over Quentin like a ripple, with the faint sensations of moonlight and pipe smoke.

It’s an interesting choice. Being that close to the groundlings is always a risky business. Plus, the further an actor moves downstage, the more power he subconsciously has, in the eyes of the audience. Yet he’s lowering himself, giving Skye’s Kimber a higher status. Quentin’s not sure whether it’s the right subliminal story the tableau needs.

Not to be dissuaded, Skye goes after him. She approaches from a respectful distance, before smacking him on the arm with the ledger. Benedick wasn’t expecting that, and his doleful mouth slips for a second. She grins at him, and he returns it.

“Unfetter thyself from this heavy weight,” Skye rebukes, “for not all Fate’s currents mean to drown thee. This novel in mine hands did appear but suddenly in the libr’y stacks. I swear, by Umber’s wisdom, the tome existed not ‘fore now. Though it seems mere fiction, my studies reveal these inscriptions do hold the key to our magic’s restoration!”

After another glance at his pages, Benedick waves her off. “Surely thine overtired eyes did but miss it once, and a short, renewing sleep revealed it to thee, during some new search.”

“No, good friend. No author’s name is gilded onto its cover. Nor did we ever catalog it in our ledgers. Lo’, its penmanship matches no other known scribe’s.”

He scrubs a hand over his face. "Then ‘tis some fae illusion. They ne’er miss a chance to delight in our human woes.”

Hm. Benedick might be staying on this beat a little too long. Where’s the change? Hello, Kimber is saying she has the _very_ thing he’d _just_ asked the Dean for. And he’s still going for cynical? Maybe Quentin should have made those periods into question marks.

Skye shakes her head, bending down in earnest. “For days I have labored to prove such a thing. ‘Tis certain so: no trick of the Fair Folk hath founds its way hither. Traces of godly magic, older than Fillory itself, are affixed within its parchment.”

Benedick decides to give Brian a moment to think this over. There’s a lengthy pause. So long, in fact, that Quentin can hear Margo grinding her teeth. She lowers her pages, putting her hands on her hips. Drawing in a lungful of air, she gets ready to blast the stage with a reprimand.

Until Benedick explodes upwards, straightening to his full height. “Have we earned enough divine indignation?! The impossible circumstan–”

“Not all at once!”

The rehearsal stops. It takes a bit for Q to realize he’s the one who called out. He’s halfway across the floor, holding out a hand. Shit. Why’d he do that?

And Benedick’s only got eyes for him. For a split second, Q swears he sees a fleeting, surprised smile. Like the smile of another man, beneath a peacock mask.

But it must be his imagination. Too many of his traits don’t match his memory.

“Sorry, sir,” Benedick says, dropping the character. He raised a sculpted eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

“Uh, so, um. With Brian. You’re jumping, like, fifty steps ahead on the path for him.”

Those pink lips. They draw Quentin’s gaze again, as Benedick takes a few steps forward, darting his tongue out to wet them. “Could you explain a little more?” he asks.

Quentin’s stomach drops. It’s like the rest of the world is shadowed by thunderclouds, while he alone stands in a sudden shaft of sunlight, bearing down from the sky.

Something about his stance. Something in the way he moves. Something about his voice.

Quentin has to almost physically shake himself out of it. Benedick needs direction. He’s just asking for more about the character that he’s been _hired_ to bring to life. That’s all. That IS all.

He pushes his hair behind his ears. “Brian’s got this whole character arc we have to take him through. If that’s how big you’re going right now? Where’re you gonna go when he’s faced with spending his _entire_ life with High King Nigel? On an impossible quest, that he may _never_ actually finish?”

The actor blinks at him, then nods very slowly. But then the rest of his brain seems to catch up. “Sorry, Mr. Coldwater. I haven’t seen that part yet. I don’t have those pages, just these.” That taunting lock of dark brown hair almost falls into his eyes. And those eyes are…very, very hazel.

“Right! Of course.” Quentin says with a forced smile. He puts his hands behind his back, so no one can’t see him fidget. “And you’ll be getting those later. Absolutely. Just focus on what you’ve got now. But keep that in mind. You’re only on the first scene. You’ve got a lot more ahead of you.”

“I know,” Benedick says, his gaze not leaving Quentin’s for a moment.

He has to tear himself away. His mind is… mixing things up. Like… like jam, in a bowl of porridge. Or something. If he’s not careful, he’ll end up stirring two separate things together, and he’ll never be able to undo the result.

“Carry on,” he says weakly, and then he rushes for the safety of backstage.

He has to get all of…of _that_ out of his system. All the butterflies, all the giddiness, all the _wanting._ Come on. Focus. It’s time to get some paper and an inkpot. He’ll calm down, as soon as he expels all those thoughts from his brain. There’s a nook in The Whitespire’s rafters. He can spirit himself away for the rest of the day. He’ll incorporate Janet into the script. Josh’ll be happy to get more pages–

Someone's following along behind him. He ducks through the upstage left curtain, holding it open for whoever it is.

Margo’s iron grip yanks it out of his hands, and he jumps about a foot in the air when he sees the look on her face. “Everybody out!” she bellows. The Admiral’s Men and the rest of the backstage cast members don’t ask twice. Once they’re out of earshot, she hisses, “The fuck is going on with you?”

Honestly, any answer he'd give is probably the wrong one? He doesn’t even trust himself to speak.

She drags him into a workshop in the back and shuts the door. “I’ve seen horny virgin _boys_ with more common sense than you.”

“Common sense about what?”

She grabs him by the chin. “You think that fresh meat out there doesn’t want you wrapped around his dick before this’s all over?”

He inhales so fast, he chokes on his own spit. Absurdly, the first thing he can think of to mumble out is, “You don’t know if he even has one.”

“His allegorical dick, then.” She grips his chin harder. “You know me. Backstage and behind closed doors, I’m practically the _reason_ we have a live-and-let-live standard. It’s the end of the 16th century; people want who they want.” She pauses for a second, then shakes him a little. “But if someone who’s _unsympathetic_ catches wind? Shutting The Whitespire back down will be the tamest thing they do.”

He pushes her hand away as gently but sternly as he can. “It’s not like that. Something… something happened yesterday. Not with Benedick, with someone else. And my… my mind’s trying to sort through it all. That’s it.”

Instead of another retort, Margo stays quiet. She takes in the dark circles under his eyes, the smudges of ink dotting his hands and sleeves. With a few gentle fingers, she tucks a lock of his hair behind his ear. “Is this your first time? Falling for another man?” she whispers.

She’s hit the mark dead center. He takes in a deep breath. “Like I said. It’s not Benedick.”

“Fine. But does Benedick know? About _any_ of it?”

He shakes his head. “I haven’t said more than a handful of words to him. He auditioned, I cast him, and I coached him for five minutes just now.”

“So he’s not leading you on?” Margo presses. “He’s not manipulating you?”

“Why would he?”

“It’s obvious the man can act,” she concedes. She walks over to the workbench and leans against it. Light from the window behind her catches the silver studs on her jacket, projecting little fireflies onto the ceiling. “He’s at least seen theatre before. He knows how to cheat out, he has an eye for levels, and he doesn’t park-and-bark. If he’s looking for more special treatment, after you’ve already given him the lead, that’s what I’d think.”

He ends up copying her. Presses his back against the wall-to-ceiling shelves behind him. A few people out on the street pass by the window, but no one’s looking in. He folds his arms, gathering his thoughts.

This wasn’t supposed to be his first real conversation with her. He’d imagined them downing pitchers of ale in a tavern together, the whole company around them. Celebrating her return, while she regaled everyone with fantastic, barely-believable stories. Then they’d sneak out, walk arm-in-arm down to the wharf, and talk in low voices about how things _really_ are. Instead, she’s stuck trying to keep him from losing his head, like always.

“I’m just tryna make sense of those looks he’s giving you, that’s all,” she says after a while.

“He was probably just staring ‘cause I couldn’t stop staring at him.” He rubs a hand across his forehead. “Last night’s become this… constant… _refrain_ inside. Every time I see Benedick, everything that happened after I met him replays itself in my head.”

Never one to indulge in sympathy, she says, “Well, don’t leave a girl waiting.” Her expression has turned downright salacious. “If you spare a single detail, Q, I’ll toss you headfirst into a plague house.”

The whole story takes longer than he expected. There are some details he does choose to leave out, no matter what she threatens. Eliot’s past is a treasured secret. One he’d never reveal to another. But she’s the perfect audience for everything else. She insists on descriptions of every feature of Eliot’s costume, then lambasts him for his stupidity with Fen. She even makes saucy faces at him, nonstop, while he waxes on about the man’s eyes and hands. The way his beautiful, clever mind teased out Quentin’s bad monologuing habits.

At the end of it, she pries, like the hopeful romantic she absolutely is _not_ : “And how soon’re you seeing him again?”

“Yeah, like that’s gonna happen,” he snorts moodily. “It’s not like I can just... call on him at his house. And just because I manage to sneak into court once a fortnight, doesn’t mean he’ll be there at the same time. And besides, me? With a noble? Even _I_ can’t imagine how that’d work.”

She pushes off from the work bench to join him at the shelves, brushing her shoulder with his. “Benedick’s the cousin of Eliot’s butler, right?” she muses.

“Yeah. That’s how he got my letter.”

She slowly turns her head. Like she’s asking him a question, only he doesn’t know what answer she’s looking for. Finally, she suggests, “Any chance it can go both ways?”

“Hm?”

“Have Benedick give the butler a letter. Which he can then pass along to Eliot.”

His forehead creases in worry. “Would he? I dunno what kinda person he is. What’s to say he won’t open it and read it?” He scoffs at himself. “And anyway, what’ll I even say?”

She pushes him, nearly toppling him over. “You’re telling me you can’t pull one sonnet out of your ass for your star-crossed soulmate? You’re not love-sick; you just need to get laid.”

Once he rights himself, he sticks his chin out at her. “Oh, I’m love-sick alright.”

“You’re cock-thirsty,” she shoots right back.

“I’m gonna reinvent chivalry by the time I’m done.”

“Any dick will do.”

“Cupid’s arrow’s struck. It’s meant to be.”

“Cupid just jammed it up your ass, and you want something bigger.”

He shoves the workshop door open behind him and backs up, still sticking his head through the frame. “King Solomon’s gonna be jealous of all the poetry I’m about to write.”

“Well!” Her eyes go wide, and her jaw drops in shock. “That’s fuckin’ marvelous! Must mean my pages for Janet’re already done!”

A strong wind could’ve knocked him over. Damn, she knows him so well. Unable to come up with anything better, he flips her off, then bolts away from the door when she cackles at her victory.

Margo peeks her head out a minute later. She confirms Q’s squirreled himself away up in that little writer’s nook of his. Scratching and tinkling sounds flutter down, signs of a quill hard at work.

That’s the thing about Q, she thinks. Coddle him, and half the time his inner demons take advantage. Challenge him, and he fights with everything he has. She’s learned that the hard way, ever since she took the awkward son of a bitch under her wing. His genuine compassion, and his teeth-grinding self-deprecation, and his stupidly infectious optimism, all got under her skin from day one. And deep down, she hopes that never changes.

She traipses back out into the house, and doesn’t miss the way Benedick instantly looks over her shoulder, like he’s hoping Q’s a second behind her.

“Did I say you twats could take a break?” she says.

Skye scurries back over to begin the scene again, while Fogg, Lipson, and Sunderland tiredly head to their places. Idri’s rich timbre is echoing down from the third-tier balcony. He’s got the boys running lines for the Great Cock scene, by the sounds of it.

Benedick’s the only one not moving.

“Hey! Dickless! Get your ass backstage!”

He turns to her. For the first time in ages, she can’t make head or tails of what’s going on behind a man’s face. His eyebrows are drawn, but he’s smirking too. A delighted gleam reflects in his pupils. Like he knows more than she does, about a whole lotta things.

“Are you always like this?” he asks, a laugh hiding between the words.

“Honey, you ain’t got the _intellect_ to grasp what I’m like.”

He nods without argument. There isn't even a flicker of discomposure. If anything, she’s made him grin even wider. He trails his eyes over her in admiration. Without any hint of lust, or underestimation. It’s almost like…he doesn’t want a single goddamn thing from her. No one’s ever looked at her like that. Not her parents, not her lovers, not even Q.

Well. Huh. Maybe she’s gonna end up making a new friend today after all.

The rest of the rehearsal goes about as well as it can, no thanks to her unrelenting direction. Haphazardly, they run the Prologue and Act One about four times. They get a couple snickers from Josh, and even Marina and her lackey wind up fighting smiles too, whenever Idri swans in as the Great Cock. God, that part’s gonna go right to the motherfucker’s head, isn’t it? With all that praise dripping off of Nigel’s lines? Yeah, they'll never hear the end of it. Not through this whole production.

Mike’s at least gotten a handle on some of Nigel’s intentions by the end of the day. He and Idri seem glad to try out something new together. He must’ve been watching Benedick’s take on Brian too: he’s made some of his blocking parallel Benedick’s, while the Cock imparts his quest. And he definitely sizes Benedick up too, whenever Scene Three plays out. The Fillorians approach the druid college for help, and Benedick gives as good as he gets. He makes sure to command attention, but he doesn’t steal anyone else’s thunder, and she only ends up screeching at him a handful of times. Mostly, it's whenever he gets distracted by any tiny twitch from the backstage curtains.

Quentin pops back in when it hits suppertime. He’s got updated versions of Scenes Two and Three, now with Janet’s lines, and he’s even got the first scene of Act Two. Margo snatches the new pages right out of his hands, then dismisses everyone for the night.

And if she happens to find herself on _that_ corner of the stage? The one Quentin's drawn Benedick over to, asking him for a private word? Well, that’s just a fucking coincidence, ain’t it.

“Your first day went alright?” Quentin asks.

Benedick chuckles, leaning against one of the pillars. “Um, it might’ve gone almost too well? Is that possible?”

Quentin’s too nervous to share the laugh. His letter to Eliot is burning a hole in his pocket. All he needs to do is make small talk, until he finds a solid segue to hand it over. It’s fine. It’s gonna be okay. He ducks his head down, trying to keep himself in the present, and to keep his heart from leaping out of his chest.

“I never got to thank you, Mr. Coldwater,” Benedick continues.

He fixes a wrinkle at the bottom of his shirt. “Call me Quentin. All us players get friendly by the time the show goes up. Might as well start now.”

“Right. Well, Quentin, I mean it. Thank you, for casting me.”

He doesn’t know what to say to that. He’s got nothing.

Margo very noisily flips one of her pages, but her eyes aren’t scanning the lines. He aims a glare in her direction, but all she does is purse her lips and raise her eyebrows, not looking up in the slightest. He wants to shout at her that she’s not helping. Sending the letter was her idea! Doesn’t she get it? She’s not the one whose brain is _determined_ to draw every comparison between Benedick and Eliot it possibly can.

He has to remember: it’s impossible to know whether they’re the same height. Lots of people have dark, curly hair. Dazzling hazel eyes are a common feature. Any man can develop a broad, sloping chest after a bit of hard labor. His broken brain is just seeing things that aren’t true, and he’s gotta push through it. Act rationally.

“Well, you earned it,” Quentin swallows. “And for what it’s worth, I, I think that you are going to be a _really_ good king.” He forces his head up, looking Benedick right in the eyes, showing him he means it.

The smile that greets him is enough to steal his breath. Like the trapdoor in the stage has opened right under Quentin's feet, and he’ll crash into the floor below, any second now. Benedick’s blinking rapidly, like there’s something in his eye. He’s a little breathless, a rose tint just starting to rise in his cheeks. If he stares at him any more intensely, Quentin’s going to launch skyward, like a meteor, right through the open ceiling.

Benedick goes to speak, his eyes still shining, but Tick, Ess, and Micah loudly stumble their way down to the ground floor, heading for the exit. Micah’s shouldering a half-empty wineskin. They don’t seem to realize they’re not the last ones out.

Ess says, “Hoberman said he’s a eunuch. Like, I can’t believe it, man. Someone who’s not _whole,_ leading the show?”

Tick’s wheedling follows. “Well, even if they can’t _feel_ anything, I suppose they are known to _perform_ certain _parts_. They’ll be anything you want them to be!”

Quentin’s ears are ringing. Goosebumps race down his back. Echoes of his chat with Margo, warning him about Benedick’s acting, slam into his chest. Benedick jerks his eyes away, glancing at the bawdy trio. Margo slowly puts her script aside, readying herself to rip them a new one.

But Quentin beats her to it. “Shut the fuck up. Both of you.”

The three men whip their heads around, like a gaggle of children caught sneaking out after midnight.

“He auditioned, just like everyone else,” Quentin declares, his voice nearly breaking. He speaks to himself now, just as much as he berates them. “He’s worked just as hard as you today. No, harder. And you know what? Theatre is a haven. For all of us. The rest of the world can judge and mock and beat us bloody, but in here? We _accept_ the members of our company.” He takes a shaky breath, overcome, hoping that this makes up for the things he and Margo wondered about earlier. “And because I’m willing to accept you now, because I know you are better than this, consider this your one warning. Never repeat those foul words again, or else you’ll never work in this theater again.”

No one speaks a word.

“Any o’ you fuckin’ fleabags gonna apologize? Or am I sticking my fist up your asses and making myself some new sock puppets?” Margo says, her voice deadly quiet.

Micah goes first, bowing at the waist and taking a step back. Tick’s right behind, offering a thousand apologies and probably not meaning a word of it. Ess, prouder than any cock o’ the walk, stiffly jerks his head once, says sorry, and then turns on his heel and strides out. The others follow.

Deflating a bit, Quentin sneaks a glance at Margo. She nods at him, but then nudges her head to the side, and he takes the hint. He turns, only to see Benedick schooling his face. The watery look in his eyes is gone. Replaced by aloof amusement.

“I could’ve handled that on my own,” he says.

Quentin, however, knows exactly how actors operate. “Sure. You okay, though?”

He arches an eyebrow. “Never better. That stuff they said couldn’t mean less to me.”

Quentin reaches out and lays a hand on Benedick’s arm. The muscle beneath the fabric is taut. “Still, you shouldn’t’ve had to hear it.”

Benedick gives him a pitying look. “The world’s told me I’m broken all my life. I learned to tune it out a long time ago.” He sighs and pats his hand patronizingly.

His fingers tighten. “You’re not broken, Benedick,” he says. Quiet, but broaching no argument. “Never have been.”

And for just a moment, the mask falls. The actor’s eyes shine again, and his lower lip trembles, as he opens his mouth. His hand stills on Quentin’s, and he holds it there, his nimble fingers curving around the back of his hand.

Quentin is well-aware of his own hypocrisy. If anyone had said the same words to him, he’d’ve spouted off a million reasons, chronologically, to prove them wrong. It’s second nature, to see the positive qualities of others, while seeing none in himself.

But, if you have another person who says it often enough – like Margo and Seb, and even Josh and Kady and Alice every once in a while – then there is a chance you’ll start secretly hoping it’s true. And if Benedick’s never heard someone say that to him? All mixed feelings aside, Quentin’s only too ready to play that part, especially for someone who may need it just as much as he always does.

“Seconded,” Margo says, coming over to them. She prods Benedick on the shoulder, grinning wickedly. “I’m starving, bitches. Let’s grab some supper. A welcome-to-the-show meal, your treat.”

Benedick smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. His face closes back up. An air of affected regret settles into his posture. “’Fraid I can’t, Ms. Hanson. I’ve been gone from home too long. Gotta check on things and see if there’s anything they need me for. Earn my keep, you know.”

“Nah, you can stay out a while longer,” she goads.

He shakes his head. “Another time. Promise. I’ve got to head to the docks before they get too crowded.” His arm drops, and Quentin’s forced to let his hand fall back to his side. Benedick turns and offers him a flat smile. “Thanks again. And sorry. I know I was late this morning, but I’ll be the first one here tomorrow.” He swerves around them, heading for backstage. “Have a good night!”

Before he gets too far, Margo takes Quentin by the shoulders. “Hold on, Q’s got something for you.”

He careens forward as she suddenly pushes him along. His grunt of surprise is Benedick’s only warning. He manages to turn and catch him before he plows right into his stomach, almost like it was choreographed. The two of them freeze there, staring up at each other. Quentin can feel the rise and fall of Benedick’s chest. He sees the flushed skin peeking out from his collar, where his shirt’s pulled down. That image from last night, where he’d imagined crawling onto Eliot’s lap, to nuzzle at his neck, overtakes him like a waking dream, almost a vision made real.

“God, I, uh, sorry. So sorry.” He extricates himself out of the… (security, safety, _stop it_ )… of Benedick’s embrace. “Lost my footing.”

To make matter’s worse, there’s a _snap_ , like a stretched garter flicking back into place. Benedick bites his lip in pain. One of his hands goes to a spot below his navel. He must’ve struck him with his elbow.

“It’s fine,” Benedick manages. “What – _ah_ – you, you had something for me?”

Flushing redder than a sailor’s sunset, he drops his eyes and fumbles around in his pocket, taking out the letter. The swirls of Eliot’s name have only just dried out. “If it’s not too much trouble, could you give this to your cousin? And ask if he’ll pass it along to his employer?”

It takes Benedick a second to focus. He takes a few deep breathes, then nods. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll see he gets it.”

Quentin breathes in relief, then hands it over with several thank yous and more apologies. Benedick tucks it into his jacket, bows his head in farewell to the two of them, then limps through the curtain.

“You’re welcome,” Margo says. Once he rounds on her, and she sees the look of pouting indignation on his face, she glares him down. “You would’ve cocked out on yourself. And then spent the rest of the night silently, mopingly regretting it. And I’d’ve had to sit there and pretend to feel sorry for you the whole time. You owe me a cask of wine – no, _two_ – after all I did for you today. And that’s me being _very_ generous. So now _you’re_ treating me to dinner, you hear me?”

His survival instincts tell him if he disagrees with any of that, he’ll regret it. And he can barely put any words together right now anyway. He’s been wrung dry. Quite a few anxious voices are already scratching at the edges of his sanity. A night out with Margo will drown them out for a long time. And he really does need to thank her.

“Does the wine have to be French?” he asks with a tired smile.

As the two of them head for the public entrance to lock up, Eliot lets out the breath he’s been holding backstage. His improvised… erm, disguise, below the belt, has slipped loose. Now that everyone’s gone, he can readjust himself. Training his ears for the slightest noise, so he won’t be discovered, he slips the garter down, smooths out the bunched-up hose, gets everything back into place. He tries to take a few steps. Good. He’ll be able to walk home without any pain. When he gets back to his rooms, though, he’ll really need to let his nethers air out. He hadn’t had the slightest idea what he was in for, having his cock tucked in all day. Not that he often needs an excuse to sleep naked. But if he’s going to keep this up for the next three weeks, his body is gonna need any reprieve he can give it.

Once he leaves The Whitespire behind, and finds a boat to take him home, he tries to breathe. To just… just breathe. The fading sunlight warms his back, and the steady sounds of the river lull him into drifting thoughts, almost to the point of sleep. All the lines he needs to remember blur together in his head, and his feet ache. From all the standing and sitting and kneeling and standing all over again. Goddamn sporting games leave him less drained than this.

But underneath it all, despite the stress of hiding himself, and all that blocking and shouting and the backstabbing whispers? There is joy. A true smile grows on Eliot’s face. He goes to put his hand over his mouth, to hide it. But then he stops himself, and lets it happen.

For endless hours today, poetry had filled every corner of his body. He’d lived it, breathed it, and turned its possible meanings over and over in his head, until it’d yielded some of its many secrets. As a player, he’s tentatively earned his place in The Whitespire. Despite his tardiness – all due to seeing his parents off, a much-needed haircut, and working out the logistics of his disguise – he’s been welcomed, genuinely welcomed, into this…

This… what?

He doesn’t even have the right word for it. He’d almost call it a family, if he had any idea what a normal one is supposed to look like. Constant bickering, and laughing, and outright shouting matches – which turned into no-harm-no-foul-so-lets-run-it-agains faster than he could blink. No one had any concept of personal space, backstage or on it. Half the ideas they came up with got scrapped before the day was over. He couldn’t predict which of his choices would send Margo into a blind rage, or earn her begrudging praise.

Instead of vexing him to his core? He loved it. Loved it all. He may be playing his own part, hiding who he really is, but somehow, inside The Whitespire, he felt more himself than ever before.

And it was all thanks to one man. One terrifying, impossible, ridiculous, soul-shatteringly wonderful man.

His boatman tosses a rope at the docks. He shakes himself out of his thoughts long enough to pay him and clamber out of the boat. His heart’s hammering out of control all the way up the path.

On one hand, it’s taken only two days for Quentin Coldwater to turn his life upside down. On the other, Quentin’s really been doing that for years now. Eliot had meant what he’d said, on that moonlit ledge last night, when they’d grown close. _So_ close. Quentin had – and he could not believe he, Eliot Waugh – whose feelings were more closely guarded than the queen herself – was going to say this, but… Quentin really had captured his heart.

God, what is wrong with him? Eliot knows better than this! He knows nothing is more dangerous than giving his heart to someone else. That’s been branded onto him since childhood.

But here he is. Stricken. Afflicted. Vulnerable. Goddamn smitten. Be-fucking-sotted.

Last night, just when he’d thought the high from the playwright’s letter would have to tide him over for the evening? Quentin had shown up. And they’d _danced._

Eliot had dreamed of dancing with another man for as long as he could remember. And it was _Quentin_ he’d danced with. Whether it was a happy accident, or fated to be, didn’t matter a wit. His molasses-brown eyes hadn’t known him, sure. But… he hadn’t taken those same eyes off him once. He’d trusted him, with every allemande and switch, right down to those fantastic seconds where Eliot was allowed to wrap his hands around that bony waist of his, and lift him off the ground. He’d held him close, and his heart had barely been able to cope.

And then. They’d met once more.

Even though fear had been a constant specter on that wall, Eliot discovered he was in the company of someone so _willing_ to share his true self with him, that there was nothing he could do but share himself in return. He’d barely bothered with his usual defenses. He’d been swept away, by the truth about Fillory, and the darkness that Quentin bore with such strength and wit and bravery.

The only thing that had stopped Eliot from taking off his mask, and pressing his lips to that clever, gorgeous mouth – a mouth that was, honestly, begging to be kissed, _well_ and _often_ – had been the last, thin shred of his practicality. If Quentin knew the truth, Eliot would never be able to return to The Whitespire. To see him the next day, and the next, and all the days after, until opening day. In the end, that had been the smarter, safer choice. As much as Eliot’s traitor heart would never admit it.

For, thanks to that last-minute save, now he has the memories of everything that’d happened today, and a letter in his jacket. Not to Benedick this time, but to him. Quentin had thought about Eliot today, even while producing sheets and sheets of his new play.

He swings around the gravel plaza, making for the usual side door through the kitchen. A few cooks spot him, and they curtsy. He returns their courtesy with a nod. He asks one of them to prepare a light supper, and advises he’ll send Todd down for it soon.

Crossing through one of the dining rooms, he climbs the stairs up to the hall of his quarters, seconds from pulling the letter out to read it, only to hear shouting coming from the foyer near his bedchamber. Just like yesterday, with his mother. This time, he hears the voice of someone far, far worse.

Fen shouts, “You’re telling me he prays _this_ long, at _this_ particular time of day? Regularly?”

And poor Todd squeaks out, “My lord Eliot is very pious. Full of prayers. Tons of them.”

There’s the sound of heels parading across the wood floors. Like Fen is pacing back and forth, a tiger nearly loose from her cage. “Piety is for Sundays! A man spending two hours on his knees daily isn’t selfless; it’s self-important!”

Eliot nearly snorts. If it were up to him, he’d barge in right now and shock her with all the things he _would_ daily, selflessly, love to do on his knees.

Todd clears his throat. “Maybe it would be better for you to come back tomorrow? If my lady has other matters to attend to, ones that require her valuable time–”

That sends her off on another outburst. Eliot decides to show Todd some mercy. He takes the same route as he had with his mother, not bothering with an outfit change this time. Opening his bedroom door with a flourish, he announces, “Todd, I might need a salve today. My knees are killing me.”

He turns to Fen, who’s in the middle of getting herself under control. She’s standing near the tall window seat across the room. The fading sunlight reveals she has, in fact, been waiting a while. The mounds of her pressed skirts have lost some of their volume. Wisps of her braided auburn hair float loose around her high collar. She’s in a deceptively innocent lilac gown, although it is a season out of fashion. He notes she’s wearing much less jewelry now than she had been last night.

“How do you do, Lady Wessex?” Eliot says. He closes his bedroom door, and gestures that she’s welcome to take a seat in one of the ornate chairs by the fireplace. “Thank you for indulging my little habit.”

If Fen notices he purposefully did not ask Todd to fetch her some tea, she doesn’t show it. She also does not take a seat. “I’m sure we’ll learn to indulge many of each other’s habits over the years, sir,” she says. “I might as well start now.”

“You expect us to form some kind of acquaintanceship, my lady?” His aching feet are starting to throb. Eliot goes over to one of the chairs, placing a hand on its back and bracing himself.

“One can only hope as much, in a marriage.”

Finally, Eliot’s heart slows. More to the point, it nearly stops, before slamming against his breastbone even harder. Todd’s warnings. Last night’s dance. He hadn’t expected anything to come of them. Not _this_ soon. Maybe if he plays aloof, his nightmares about the future won’t come true.

“Do you intend to marry, Lady Wessex?”

She gives him a hollow laugh. “Your father should keep you better informed. Didn’t he mention anything when he left this morning?” She pauses. When it becomes clear that she’ll prolong the silence until he responds, he relents with a shake of his head, unwilling to give her anything else. Satisfied, she folds her hands behind her back, tilting her head and smiling. “Doesn’t matter, I guess. Last night, he basically bought me for you. We’ll be married two weeks from Saturday.”

If he were a woman, this would be the part where he’d fake a fainting spell. He’d beg Todd to take him back to his room, and fetch some vapors. His melodramatic ass seriously considers pushing Fen aside and jumping straight out the window. Or flat-out dashing from the room, leaving the house altogether and fleeing into the countryside. Or diving into the Thames, floating back to London, and washing up on the banks to live as a beggar on the streets.

His dumbfounded look only seems to spur Fen on. “It’s all planned out. The marriage will help me recover my fortune, and your children will bear arms, just as your father wants. You’ll like Virginia. It’s a wild country, so I hear. But settling there is well worth the risk. We’ll set sail for the New World as soon as we leave the church.”

Eliot grips the chair so hard, he feels his nails pierce the backing. He glances at Todd, who’s gone equally pale. “V-Virginia?” he says hoarsely. “Her Majesty’s new colony?”

She stares at him beneath lowered eyebrows. “You’re aware of my mining stock? The untamed Americas are overflowing with gold, according to the latest word from Sir Walter Raleigh. I’m procuring more bullion for the Crown, and taking a share of it for us.” Her heels clack against the floor, like a carpenter’s mallet on unsuspecting nails, as she walks closer. She comes to a stop only a few feet away. As though doing him a kindness, she shrugs and waves her hand in the air. “Your father’s paying for the voyage and the materials to get the venture started, but we won’t stay there forever. Three or four years, I’d say.”

Three or four _years_. Dragged off to another continent, with only her and Todd for company. To help her run a precarious business, one which he hasn’t the first clue how to handle. No galas to gossip or dance in, no books to escape in, no… plays to….

_Quentin_.

“Why me?” he asks, trying not to scream. “Why not another noble family? One who has a fortune and a name?”

_Why couldn’t you just leave me out of your scheming? Why couldn’t you just let me have one spare moment of happiness?_

Her eyes drag along his body, like a specimen under an apothecary’s lens. “You’re entertaining,” she notes offhandedly. “And handsome. Our children won’t suffer for want of wit or looks. And you know what it means to come from nothing. You’re less likely to drag us into ruin.”

“Oh.”

She frowns. “If you can’t pretend any enthusiasm now, at least make sure you do on Sunday.”

“What’s on Sunday?” he says weakly.

A vein throbs in her forehead. “Her Majesty’s consent is required if a Wessex wants to marry. Once we have her consent, it is her command. So, on Sunday, we’re off to Greenwich. Queen Julia will inspect you. Do your duty to your family, and our future children.” She brushes past him, heading for the door. At the last second, she calls to him, “A little gratitude and modesty couldn’t hurt either.”

That is the last thing he’ll deign to give her. She finally leaves the room when his apathy goes on longer than she can stand.

He fumbles with the back of the chair, coming around and collapsing into it. Todd very wisely doesn’t come forward, standing still as Eliot’s head empties. Every breath, every blink, every thought is a conscious effort. His airways are clear, but there might as well be a pillow pressed over his face. Just before he sinks into the oncoming oblivion, he marshals an excuse to be alone.

“Todd?”

“Yes, sir?”

“I asked the cooks to prepare a tray.”

“Should I go and get it for you?”

“No,” Eliot says distantly, his eyes losing focus. “I don’t think I’ll… have any appetite tonight. Why don’t you, um, head down to the kitchen, and have yourself a lordly meal. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Are you sure? Can I help with anything? Anything at all?”

His voice sounds so far away. “Please, Todd.”

His friend leaves without another word, closing the foyer door as softly as possible.

Eliot can’t even bring himself to cry. He thinks of long, fraught, seasick months crossing the stormy Atlantic. Of his brain rotting in some far of country, from boredom, or daily drownings in alcohol, or both. Of holding a young child close, only for his father to tear them out of his arms.

A clammy sweat breaks out along his back and armpits. His limbs are shaking, and there’s a pressure bearing down on his chest. He needs something safe. Anything safe. Mustering some control, he pushes out of the chair and stumbles back into his bedroom. The spasms in his hands make disrobing difficult, but one by one, pieces of him come off. Boots, hose, trousers, doublet, undershirt, garter. He gathers everything into something like an organized pile. For. For tomorrow.

That’s when he hears it. A crinkle, from bent paper, inside his jacket. The letter. And that’s when his eyes begin to blur, and burn. He falls to the floor, naked, the cold wood merciless on his legs.

He sits up, leaning back against the side of the bed, gasping, shaking harder, gripping his clothes hard enough to whiten his knuckles.

He had thought his parents leaving would weeks of freedom. Tonight, those weeks have transformed into his last rites before the execution. He won’t be able to stay in The Whitespire’s company, beyond their opening day. He’ll have to go to rehearsal with this constant _miasma_ polluting everything he says and does. The thought of taking Quentin aside, of having to invent some excuse for dropping out, makes him double over. He moans, pressing his eyes to his knees as hot tears trail down his nose, dribbling onto his thighs.

He just wants Quentin here. He wants to curl into Quentin’s chest, his expressive hands cradling Eliot’s head close, running his fingers through Eliot’s hair. To be warmed by his body. To beg his beautiful brain to come up with some clever way out of this.

Not that they’re even that close. That kind of familiarity is probably too much, too soon. He hasn’t earned that from him, not after two days.

But his ragged heart is pathetic enough to take anything from him at this point. Even if it’s going to hurt later.

He pries the letter out from his jacket. Through a sliver of orange sunlight, he makes out the curving, careful scrawl of Quentin’s words.

_Dearest Eliot,_

_My pen did find its way into my hands after all._

Eliot gives a choked laugh through his tears. Trust Quentin to make their tongue-in-cheek joke literal – and to tantalize him, with the image of also doing what it implied – all at once.

_I’ve spent countless hours mired in emptiness. Yet one night in your company has freed me from it, a blessing I still don’t think I deserve. My new work is thriving, and you are the sole source of my inspiration. I know not when you’ll be able to see the finished play. Whether Fortune will have our stars align at court, or in some other impossible circumstance, only time will tell. But if you can inspire such a font of words, and genuine hope, in this sorry playwright? Then certainly, I can trust in your prediction, that we_ _will _ _see each other again. Until that day, please have this humble poem, as a token of my revived dreams._

_Q_

It’s a sonnet, and that steady, lulling rhythm flows through Eliot’s body as he reads it. Timed with his slowing heartbeat. Untangling every knotted distress inside him. He reads it again, imagining Quentin reciting it with soft, slow affection. Chatwin’s Torrent made manifest. Bathing his mangled mind clean.

_As an unperfect actor on the stage  
_ _Who with his fear is put beside his part,  
_ _Or some fierce thing replete with too much rage,  
_ _Whose strength’s abundance weakens his own heart;  
_ _So I, for fear of trust, forget to say  
_ _The perfect ceremony of love’s right,  
_ _And in mine own love’s strength seem to decay,  
_ _O’ercharged with burthen of mine own love’s might.  
_ _O, let my books be then the eloquence  
_ _And dumb presagers of my speaking breast  
_ _Who plead for love, and look for recompense,  
_ _More than that tongue that more hath more express’d.  
__O, learn to read what silent love hath writ:  
__To hear with eyes belongs to love’s fine wit._

Oh, Quentin. He talks about his shortcomings with words, and then makes _this_.

Knowing he can’t say it aloud – for fear of discovery, for fear that words won’t do it justice – he still writes of love. _Love_.

If Eliot’d opened this not fifteen minutes ago, it would have made every corner of his soul shine. He’d’ve flown back to London on the very winds, taking Quentin’s hand in his, kissing it, kissing him, like he was the very air he needed to breathe, like he was seconds from kneeling down and sliding his cock into his mouth, moments from working him open with complete devotion, and entering his perfect body like his only aim in this life was to bring him pleasure and happiness forever.

And he does feel like he’s glowing now. To a degree. The love he feels blooms, like a sunflower, like gunpowder, like a new savory flavor, like a blank canvas soaking in color.

* * *

[ ](https://yourtinseltinkerbell.tumblr.com/post/630338644708917248/and-he-does-feel-like-hes-glowing-now-to-a)

* * *

But there’s only so far the petals can grow, only so much fire in the spark, only so much food to taste, only so much fabric to paint.

How can he reassure Quentin that he returns his feelings… when they’ll only be ripped apart from each other before the month is out. How can he say anything, knowing that he’ll only break his heart later. Because that is what Eliot’s love means. His love will cause harm. It always does. For him. For the one he’s given his heart to.

A rejection is his only option. It will rip them apart now, but it will save them from worse pain later.

Going over to his desk, he lights a candle with a taper from the fireplace. Then he becomes the wordsmith, quill in hand, ready to spill fresh ink like it’s his own heart’s blood. Spinning a tragedy not in five acts, just one.

_Q, poet dearest to my heart: you must banish me from yours. I am to marry Lady Wessex, a noble son’s duty._

The tears start afresh, running down his face. A few drops blot the page. He blinks through the blurred words, his chest heaving as he writes on, using the excuses of family duty and their impossible situation. An ashy taste fills his mouth every time he has to dip the nib back in the inkpot. When he finishes, he signs his name.

But still, he’s nothing short of a besotted fool. He kisses his fingers, and presses them beneath the last letters. The only kiss he can give.

He leaves the parchment there. He delegates the overwhelming act of folding it, and stuffing it into his pocket, to tomorrow. From beneath a loose floorboard by his bed, he digs out a half-empty bottle of brandy. He takes sharp, burning swallows of it as he climbs beneath his blankets. The bottle’s empty too soon. In the end, it does its job. He sinks into a haze, exhaustion and heartache drowning out all his other senses.

As much as he tries to convince himself to talk with Quentin tomorrow, about dropping out of the show, it doesn’t work. If he loses the play, he might as well sail off to Virginia right now. He can’t lose this one last speck of joy. Lose all the memories he might make over these short weeks. If he does, he’ll have nothing to keep the darkness of his future at bay. Thus, tomorrow, he won’t say anything.

He drifts. One line from the sonnet, still in Quentin’s voice, glows and echoes over and over in his mind, as he falls into his dreams.

_Who plead for love_

_Who plead for love_

_Who plead for love_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An Aside to the Audience:
> 
> This "George something" gentleman that Quentin recalls working with is a reference to George Peele, who possibly co-wrote _Titus Andronicus_ with Shakespeare.
> 
> Quentin's jam and porridge thoughts are a very subtle nod to Tom Stoppard's _Arcadia_. Tom Stoppard wrote _Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead_ , as well as the screenplay for _Shakespeare in Love_. One idea that Stoppard expresses in _Arcadia_ is how, even though time always marches on, nothing is ever really lost to it. Even if we forget important ideas, or lose great works in some catastrophe, someone will always pick them up and discover them for themselves in the future, long after we are gone. How that relates to mixing jam into porridge, though, is something you'll have to find out for yourself. 
> 
> Theatre companies did not actually have "directors" until the 1800s. During the Renaissance, companies had "actor-managers" like Margo. These people were senior actors that often chose which plays a company had in its repertoire, staged the plays, and then starred in them as the lead. When directing started to become a fully-fledged profession in the theatre community, the role of the actor-manager slowly got phased out. 
> 
> Fen mentions Sir Walter Raleigh, who founded Roanoke in 1584, and became fascinated by the legends of a City of Gold in South America, sailing all over to find it. He then chronicled (or, really, over-exaggerated) and published his experiences in _The Discovery of Guiana_ in 1596.
> 
> The sonnet Quentin gives Eliot is Sonnet 23, which is a part of the Fair Youth sequence along with Sonnet 54. I thought it more fitting to Quentin's character, and to his experiences as a writer, to use 23 rather than the (imo) over-used 18 from the movie.


	8. Act Two, Scene Four

Day Two could have gone worse. Definitely worse. A quick run-through of Act One saw Margo’s Janet joining the hunt for the Great Cock, alongside Nigel and his party. She also had quite a lot to say… or cajole… or threaten, once it became clear during their parley with the magicians that Brian wasn’t going to grant them aid on bended knee.

Quentin hadn’t been able to watch all of it. He had, undeniably, at least three and a half acts still to produce. But whenever he stepped out into the house, he wound up smiling. The company was really starting to come together.

Margo hid it well, but anyone who knew her could see she was getting a kick out of Benedick’s acting. He kept making strong character choices like yesterday. And, even better? Today, he was actively listening. Not only while he waited for the lines prior to his – he did it even when he wasn’t supposed to speak for a while. His reactions might be outright scoffs, or subtle, acquiescing nods, but he always made sure Brian was doing something. That he was present. Aware of his place. Of the story his body was telling. As if he had doubled down on his investment in the work. It enhanced every exchange. It gave Nigel and Janet an idea of just who they were dealing with. So, Margo matched him, relentlessly, allowing only the barest of pauses in their speeches, and the scenes never dragged. Mike even had to step up his game sometimes. As Benedick and Margo put everything on the line, it took him a few runs to complement that intensity.

With the second act, though, the company ran into a major slump. Quentin delivered Scene Two in the middle of lunch. He had this nagging thought – that it was missing something, he just couldn’t figure out what – and the thought wouldn’t leave him alone. But he couldn’t leave the actors with nothing new, so he handed it over to Josh and scurried back to his nook, telling himself he’d do rewrites later.

Once rehearsal resumed, everything went fine… for about fifteen minutes. Then Zelda popped her head in for some polite questions. His answers seemed to satisfy her, and she ducked back out, only for Tick to startle him when he came down for a break. The man had a laundry list of critiques on scenes One and Two, mostly about moving the set and props rather than the plot. Quentin finally had to give up and steer him over to the local carpenter. Then Micah and Idri and Victoria came in, one right after the other. When he sent them away, Rafe appeared with a message from Margo, demanding he get his ass on stage right the fuck now.

In Act Two, Brian and Nigel are unwittingly transported to Fillory’s past, to solve a mosaic puzzle that’ll grant them the key to restoring magic. Quentin eventually plans for the two kings to spend quite a long time there, trying uncountable combinations, growing closer as the years pass. Most of this would be shown through a dance in Scene Two, inspired in part by Quentin’s time with Eliot in that uncanny ballroom. The dance itself was throwing everyone off. The stage directions gave everyone a headache. There were too many different ideas on how to pull it off. No one could tell whether it was a pantomime, or a ballet, or just very, very extended dialogue.

Frankly, it was all of the above, but saying so wouldn’t help.

A dance sometimes conveyed a story better than dialogue. With little to no words telling them what to think, the audience would be left to invent their own answers. To make the story theirs. But then the sporadic dialogue showed up here and there. Tiny, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it moments, where Brian and Nigel did speak to each other, _in medias res_. It all amounted to a pantomime that showed months, years, _decades_ passing right before the audience’s eyes, all in the span of a single scene.

But the actors didn’t care about any of that. They just wanted to know how to do it.

And the thing that set Quentin’s teeth on edge? Most of the cast wasn’t even in the scene. Or the scene after. Everyone kept offering their own solutions, when really, it wasn’t even remotely their responsibility.

Now here they are, at the end of the day, and they still haven’t made any progress. The scene is still missing something. The sun has long set in the west.

Josh dismisses everyone as the darkness crowds in, telling them to rest up for tomorrow and offering encouragements – that it’ll all work out, it always does. Quentin heads back up to his nook, grinding his teeth. He shoves a cork into his inkpot so it doesn’t dry out for the night. When he climbs back down to throw his reject drafts in the bin, Margo’s there waiting for him.

A whole new ache settles onto his shoulders. He knows that look.

“You didn’t like your speech?” he guesses.

Her frown deepens. “No, it’s good. ‘O, then I see Queen Mab once had _thine_ eye?’ Nice and long; gives me backstory to work with.”

“But?”

Her jaw ticks. A heavy sigh comes through her nose, and his stomach sinks. He can handle the yelling, but not this.

“You gonna explain why Janet’s gone for all of Act Two so far?”

Honestly, he hadn’t written it that way on purpose. Well, no, okay, he had. Kinda. Because he’s still trying to figure out how Janet gets the power she deserves in the end. And whether it’s going to be metaphorical, or literal. He’s started to realize this comedy is going to be soaked in ironies by the time Act Five rolls around. The characters _will_ be getting exactly what they want… only for things to wind up being so complicated, they don’t want them anymore.

And, on top of that, he knows how it looks. After everything Margo’s done for The Whitespire? Having her only appear in two scenes so far is a pretty poor way to repay her. This play needs to be worth her time. Otherwise, she has every right to find some other venue. One that’ll use her skills wisely. She deserves more than the little he’s given her.

Guilt crawls up his back. He hates to admit it, but he’d been hoping to catch Benedick on his way out, not Margo. The two of them haven’t spoken once today. Even while he’d been out in the house trying to coach the dance with Mike. Not one word. Anytime their eyes locked, Benedick would look away. Without fail, he’d be the one staring at Quentin first, then instantly busy himself. He followed his directions, but asked nothing afterwards. Every hour had gone on like that. It felt intentional, and it felt ill-omened.

Maybe he was just peeved, about Quentin elbowing him yesterday.

Or maybe he knows the contents of Q’s letter. Maybe he knows Eliot’s reaction. Maybe he even has Eliot’s response.

Before he can even _begin_ to worry about that, Quentin shoves his concern away. No, better: he imagines tying a cannonball to its legs. Then he pictures dropping it straight into the mouth of Homer’s Charybdis.

After the day he’s had, he’s got no desire to agonize over any what-ifs, not for the rest of the night. He’s done enough of that over the past few weeks. Leaving these concerns to fester won’t do any good. He has to at least try to talk to Benedick. To understand why he’d been so different today. He’ll deal with whatever happens as a result. Whether it’s a simple explanation, to clear the air, or whether he needs to turn tail and run for the hills, he’ll… he’ll deal with it.

And honestly? There is one thing he can give Margo. He was going to throw it away, because he still needed to work things out. But it is worth her time, even if it’s unpolished. He ought to give himself some credit; it is a pretty good idea. He’ll explain it to her – or, explain what he can, at least – and then he’ll head out to the docks, on the off-chance Benedick hasn’t left for the manor yet.

He goes over to Margo, rifling through the stack in his hands. In between the last two pages, he finds the half-sheet he’s looking for. Scribbles line every inch, even the margins.

“This’s kinda complicated, but you wind up saving Brian and Nigel at the end of Act Tw– Okay, they don’t really– but they sort of do? Because they grew old? But, like, not–”

“Q.” Though it sounds like a reprimand, her shoulders fall in relief.

He smiles sheepishly. “I wanna give you a small Jane Chatwin cameo.”

Whatever she’d been expecting, it wasn’t that. Jane hadn’t been seen onstage since _Fillory of Errors_.

“Jane gets the key from Brian,” he says, “because she’s this, like, bridge. Between the past, and Brian’s present. _Janet_ then gets the key from Jane’s tomb, and then stops Brian and Nigel from going to the past in the first place. So, you see? She saves them. You save them. In your own way. It’s gonna be one hell of a quick-change.”

She grabs the half-page from him, squinting at his chicken-scratch. He’s gambling with this plotline about as much as he had with Kady a few days ago. Double-casting’s normally for players with fewer lines. But it’d be unthinkable for anyone else to play Jane. Not only that, it would tie Brian and Nigel into his other plays. The Watcherwoman’s TimePiece was said to be powered by a magic key, and _Fillory of Errors_ had revealed Jane and The Watcherwoman to be one and the same _._

While Margo digests all this, Quentin finishes tossing the rest of his rejects. He checks that the workshops are all closed up. She’s still deciphering as he douses most of the torches, so he tells her he’s gonna head out; see if he can catch Benedick.

That gets her to look up for a second. Whatever she’s about to say, though, she seems to reconsider it. Instead, she offers him a small, sanctioning smile, his place in her good graces restored. She takes the last torch, and makes her way down to the public entrance. Quentin’s just about closed the back door when he hears:

“HEY! What’s this about Janet being _banished_?!”

Um. Well. That plotline’s a whole other Gordian Knot.

Which he hasn't found the sword for yet.

He sprints away into the night before she can hunt him down.

There’s some kind of traffic jam ahead. A caravan and their oxen have run into a pack of bullying city watchmen. Quentin ducks into an alley to make his way around. Emerging onto the next street, he spies Kady stepping out from a tanner’s shop.

That guilt from before tries worming its way through him again. He lights a fire under his own ass and just keeps going. When she tries to wave him down, he doesn’t stop. When she calls out to him, about the pages she paid for, he doesn’t stop. His luck – or his rudeness – holds, and she doesn’t chase after him.

Tonight is not for recent regrets. He’ll return Kady’s money later. He’ll man up and apologize to Alice later. He’ll work on Act Two later.

He’d given Kimber the words before; now he’s taking his own advice. He’s unfettering himself.

But he’s not adrift. His heart is hauling him along, hurling itself towards the river. Towards the man who may very well make or break it, depending on what he knows.

His letter. He’d gone over it a hundred times. Made sure his handwriting looked as refined as a royal decree. Measured every word twice. Sure, he could have done what ordinary poets do: waxing rhapsodic about his subject’s physique. Trying to describe one feature in a dozen ways, only to move on to the next, and do it all again. Oh yes, he could have done that. Gladly. Eagerly. But sequestered in The Whitespire, surrounded by the sounds of his own words, he hadn’t been able shake how… disingenuous that felt. He’d grieved for the power of words in Bacchus’s office, during his Whitehall rendezvous with Alice, and even in Seb’s confidence.

And that’s the rub.

The power of words.

As powerful as they are, they can be so weak. So incapable of containing the _depth,_ the _profundity_ , of a feeling.

That’s why Quentin had written his sonnet differently. Unlike his feeble attempt at _Brian and Alice_ , he knows the truth now. Could any arrangement of words ring true for the sound of Eliot’s laugh? For that ache, in his marrow, when he faced Eliot’s vulnerability? For how intensely he hungered for his opinions, his touch, his body, his attention, his kiss? And for all that to be returned?

Love. Authors could write about it ‘til kingdom come. But no one can understand love’s true nature until they experience it for themselves. Until they witness it proved, with meaningful actions. Eliot had said Quentin was his favorite poet. Then, by God, if that’s what he wanted, he would give him _poetry_. Of _every_ kind.

So of course, he must chase Benedick down. Of course he has to know. He is right back on that edge, the one he and Eliot had danced along the other night. Now Benedick’s the one with the power to push him across it. Either into oblivion, or back onto solid ground.

Out on the wharf, the dockhands and boatmen light torches and lanterns, still ready to ferry travelers. A breeze sways and stutters the flames, lending strange reflections to the ripples below. The water laps at the hulls, rocking them. The whole expanse has become a mirage. Everything’s wavering. Unsteady. All except for one resolute figure, climbing into a boat, with Todd manning its oars.

They’re moments from casting off when Quentin reaches their dock. He shouts, “Did you give him my letter?”

Benedick startles, one of Todd’s oars splashing him in the face.

“Sorry! So sorry! I– uh.”

“It’s fine,” Benedick says. He rights himself on his seat with a frown. “You okay? You’re out of breath.”

No, he’s not okay. Now that he’s here, all he wants to do is stall. From his pockets, he digs out a clean handkerchief and offers it up. While Benedick pats himself dry, the boat starts to drift. A rope keeps it from going too far.

Neither of them speak. He knows Benedick’s expecting him to either answer, to ask his question again, or to give up and say he’ll see him tomorrow. He has no idea which option sounds worse. His lungs aren’t behaving. His throat’s clenched up. The words refuse to come.

Finally, Benedick turns to look upriver. “Well, um, we have to head back, so–”

“Wanna climb in, Mr. Coldwater?” Todd says. “You guys can chat on the way.”

Before he can answer, Benedick glares at Todd. “And how’s he going to get back _here_?”

“Oh, I’ll row him back after I drop you off, it’s no trouble,” he answers cheerfully.

“That’s not–”

“Are you my employer, cousin?” Todd snarks. He widens his grin, showing his teeth. “Come on in, Mr. Coldwater. You ran all the way here. It’s important, right?”

Quentin’s heart flips. “Um. Yeah.” Todd reaches out to steady the boat, and Quentin uses the excuse of climbing in to avoid looking at either of them. “Benedick, I– or, well, Todd, too, I guess, um. So, did either of you get my letter to Eliot?”

As Q settles into the seat, Todd unties their mooring, and uses an oar to push off. There’s a puzzled look on his face. “I don’t recall any–”

“Yes, you did,” Benedick interjects, shifting next to Quentin.

“Yeees. I. Did,” Todd repeats. He begins a steady stroke. The lantern, suspended above his head from a pole and a bearing arm, swings back and forth. Every shadow around them waxes and wanes like the tide. “Yep. Got it to him. Mmm hhmmm.”

“Thank you!” Quentin says, leaning forward. “Did he… did he give you anything back? A reply?”

“You’d, uh, have to ask Benedick that.”

Quentin turns. The other man’s expression is bordering on livid, his lip bitten red, his nostrils flaring. He meets his gaze, sheer panic in his eyes for just a moment. Then he wipes his face clean, a true actor, and digs out an envelope from his jacket. “Here.”

As he takes it, their fingers accidentally brush. Goosebumps crawl up Quentin's arm, just like the other night. Benedick shivers too.

Stop it. _Stop it._ Hello, _Eliot’s_ words are in front of him. That’s what he’s here for.

With shaking hands, Quentin pries up the wax seal as Benedick looks away, perhaps to give him some privacy.

_Q, poet dearest to my heart: you must banish me from yours. I am to marry Lady Wessex, a noble son’s duty._

“Shit,” Quentin says. “G-god. Shit.”

“What… what’s it say?” Benedick asks.

He doesn’t answer, he just keeps reading.

_My family has my fidelity. There're my future children’s prospects to consider. My father has worked so hard to earn our place in high society. Lady Wessex’s hand ensures all of that. Don’t come back to the manor again. It’ll only do us both harm. I hate to think that any of my actions have falsely raised your hopes. But please, I beg you, do not stop writing just because I am incapable of reciprocating what you feel for me. The world needs Fillory as much as I do. As much as you do._

_You will find someone, someday. Someone who deserves you._

_Sincerely,_

_E. Waugh_

It’s…it’s certainly prettier than when Alice rejected him, Quentin’s cruel mind sneers. Another stroke from the oars sends the lantern swinging again. The boat plunges into darkness. Then, briefly, the light swings back again. Dark. Light. Dark. Light.

“Mr. Coldwater?” Todd says.

Quentin’s chest is roaring. Bellowing. He can barely breathe. “He’s. He’s told me not to visit him. And he’s marrying Lady Wessex.”

Todd nods, sorrow etched into his brow. He eyes Benedick for a moment, then looks down to focus on his work. Obeying his own duty, unable to speak for his employer.

Benedick’s apparently under no such obligation. “Yeah,” he says, without inflection, still looking out at the river. He stretches his legs out in the boat, all nonchalance. “We found out yesterday.”

“What should I do?”

“Um.” A surprised, hollow laugh bursts out of him. “What?”

Quentin hangs his head. He’d known all this was a possibility, but– “What should I _do_?”

A moment passes, then Benedick shrugs. “Do what he says, I guess.”

“No!” Quentin yells, startling the two men in the boat for the second time.

“No?” Benedick’s incredulous, stark hazel eyes meet his. “He’s asking you to leave him alone… and you’re just… not going to?”

Suddenly, Quentin's mind is made up. In his gut, he knows he won’t believe it. Not at face value. Not after that night. He can’t. “Not if it’s going to break his heart. I can’t do that to him. And I can’t let him do this to himself, either,” he says.

Benedick’s foot jerks along the hull. His eyes bore into him even harder. Heat races up his back. His mind sling-shots back to the other night, where Eliot had gripped his hand so tightly, like he was seconds from taking him, right there on that torchlit path, search party be damned.

But Benedick is scoffing, “How do _you_ know it’s gonna break his heart?”

And Quentin can’t help but insist, “Because he loves m–” before he blanches, biting his tongue.

Their scrutiny is inescapable. Todd knows about him, at least to a degree, so he’s not in danger there. He nods, once he puts the pieces together, a sign of acceptance.

Benedick’s impossible to read. He might as well be one of Michelangelo’s calmer statues. Eventually, he says, “You’re… in like-minded company, it’s fine.”

Quentin lets all the air out of his lungs. His muscles are a little behind, though. They’re tenser than an army on siege day. “Oh. Okay.”

Flicking some invisible dirt off of his pants, Benedick shrugs again. “I’m just trying to be a good friend here, Quentin. Aren’t things safer this way? Did he ever say he loves you? ‘Love’ is a _big_ leap. You don’t know how he feels. He’s telling you that you can’t be together. In the end, that’s what he wants, right?”

* * *

* * *

Under any other circumstances, he’d start to doubt himself. He’d let Benedick bring him back down to earth. But the proof’s in his hands. “No, see. The ink. It’s smudged all over. From tears soaking through. Was he… when he gave you this, was he crying?”

Benedick’s jaw hardens, and he looks away. “I dunno, I got it from the butler.”

Quentin frowns. “From Todd? Or someone else?”

Todd’s jaw drops, then he snaps it shut. “Um. Well, perhaps Lord Waugh’s eyes… did look a bit red this morni–”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” Benedick says, overriding him. Something makes him falter, though. He worries his bottom lip. His hand rises, as if to push his hair behind his ears, until he remembers how short it is. All he has to fiddle with now is that single, teasing tuft on his forehead. He scratches at his sideburns instead. “This Waugh guy can’t be that special. He’s gentry. You see one, you’ve seen ‘em all. Dripping with more disdain than jewelry.”

A bubble of laughter bursts out of Q’s chest. “Oh, he’s disdainful, alright.”

“Okaaay… yeah, so–”

“But he’s also _kind_ ,” he says. He drops the letter, letting it drift to the bottom of the boat, and he looks up at the dark night overhead, leaning back on his hands. “When he cares for someone, he _cares_. He listens intently. Takes it all in. And meets you where you are. He could fill the damned and destitute with more hope than a choir of angels.”

Benedick swallows. “That’s… wow… uh.”

“I mean it,” Quentin says, dragging his eyes from the sky. He puts a hand on Benedick’s shoulder, gripping it fiercely. “You look into his eyes, and _if_ you manage to not get hypnotized, by how they sparkle when you make him laugh… and _if_ you manage to not get, like, _consumed_ , when he’s giving you a look that could melt the wax off of a fucking candle, then… you find yourself… being _known_. Known better than you know yourself.”

The arm underneath Quentin’s hand starts to quiver. “F-fine,” the actor says with a loud swallow. “He’s got great eyes. Is that all that does it for you?”

“He uses his hands like, like they’re gifts,” Quentin breathes. “His touch grounds you. It’s like a, a, a lifeline of nerves. Connecting your souls together, a heartstring running through both your limbs.”

* * *

[ ](https://yourtinseltinkerbell.tumblr.com/post/630338668314378240/his-touch-grounds-you-its-like-a-a-a-lifeline)

* * *

“Well. Um. Even. Even so,” Benedick stammers. He’s gripping the seat underneath him, like he’ll topple into the bottom of the boat if he doesn’t. Maybe Quentin’s pushing the limits of his patience. “Wouldn’t you two be– Would you really be… happy with each other. In the long run. He’s noble. He’s used to wealth and privilege, right? You’re a Bankside player. What kind of life could… could you even lead together?”

Quentin almost considers this. Almost. But he knows more than Benedick does. “Love _never_ cares about that! Love doesn’t insist you fix yourself, just to earn its company. Love misses you when you’re gone. Every part of you. The good. The bad. Love never holds where you’re from against you. Love never ransoms what you earn.” His other hand comes up and clutches Benedick’s other shoulder. Every facet of those stunned, prismatic hazel eyes fills his vision. “Love can happen to anyone, anytime! It’ll bloom between a king and a vagabond, and _no one_ should forbid it if it does. Because it’s the only thing that gives life meaning. Gives it purpose!”

He can feel Benedick shaking. He’s breathing hard, like he’s scared. Scared of his intensity? Scared for Quentin?

He groans, desperate, offering a final, flimsy argument. “What about Fen?”

Quentin’s hand reaches up, grabbing the back of Benedick’s neck, glaring up at him. “For one kiss from him? I’d fight a thousand backstabbing Wessexes.”

A crash suddenly topples Benedick forward. Todd’s scrambling with the oars. He wasn’t paying attention, and they’ve slammed into the dock outside the Waugh manor. Benedick slips from his seat, smashing into Quentin’s chest as he falls to the planks below. Todd’s still fighting to get the boat tied up, but that barely registers. Dizzily, Quentin realizes they’ve reversed their hold from yesterday. Benedick’s recovering himself, gripping onto the lapels of his jacket, caught in the safety of Quentin’s arms.

Their eyes lock again, as Benedick looks up at him. There’s no distance between them save a few scant inches. He can feel every point of contact between them. Every stretch of fabric, where their chests and limbs touch.

A hand snakes behind Quentin’s head, grabbing his hair. Benedick crushes their mouths together.

Quentin gasps into the kiss. His brain is alight, burning, searing, scorching, hotter than a blacksmith’s forge. Without thinking, he presses back, into Benedick’s mouth, enthralled by the feeling of his warm, smooth lips pushing against his. Stubble scrapes along the edge of his cheek… which. Shouldn’t….

The kiss deepens, Benedick opening his mouth, brushing the edge of his tongue over Quentin’s lips. Breath from his nose tickles his eyelashes. And then a scent fills his nose. A faint wisp of tobacco smoke, coming from the cloth of his undershirt. Benedick’s hand moves, cradling his chin, like it was meant to be there, like he’d done it before, like–

Benedick pulls away. His eyes are shining, the very stars caught in their depths. “Q…”

Quentin’s mind whites out.

Suddenly, terror overtakes him. He pushes Quentin away, crawling across the boat and almost slamming face first onto the docks. He stands, sprints down the length of the jetty, and flees up the path.

“See you later, then, my lord?” Todd calls after Be – after E–

“’My. Lord?’” Quentin says faintly.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Todd turn back and raise his eyebrows. He says, “Did his whole… uh, thing, really fool you?”

Well.

He is Fortune’s fool, after all.

Quentin is on his feet so fast, the boat half-capsizes. He flies after his quarry, plunging into the darkness of the path, as Todd supplies, “His room’s the one with the balcony!”

His ears strain for the sound of running feet, his only goal to follow, to catch, to have. The crunch of gravel gets fainter – _damnit, why’s he got illegally long legs?_ – until it disappears all together.

There’s less moonlight along the road tonight; he can’t pick out any footprints. He skids to a stop, remembering, then he books it across the grass.

Five windows are lit up across one wing of the house. Just as Todd said, there’s a balcony along the top corner of the building. An ancient set of braided vines winds up one of its posts. He grabs a thick, branching section, the bark scratching his hand. He has to make his way up one hold at a time, firelight guiding his way. By some miracle, he doesn’t fall, landing on the stone balcony floor with a clumsy, vaulting swing. The balcony door is open, the crisp, warm night air drifting in with him as he steps over the threshold.

The room’s adorned with little hints of personality. A monstrous wardrobe takes up half a wall on the far side. Its doors are shut tight, except for a slip of red fabric, sticking out like a tongue. A chess set, mid-game, rests on a table near the desk. The chair for one can easily be turned around and used at the other. Books are strewn about, some in shelves, some on the nightstand, some gaping wide open on the floor. The curtains have been taken off the four-poster bed for the summer, and its sheets lie in disarray.

It’s all proof-positive. _He_ lives here. _He lives here_. He’s real and brilliant and beautiful, and he’s been _right there_ in front of him. This. Whole. Time.

A door slams open in the room beyond, and Eliot Waugh stumbles into view. A few drops of glistening sweat run down his face. His lips and cheeks are flushed pink. The gravel dust on his boots leaves a streak on the polished floor, as he steps from the foyer into his bedroom.

If Eliot’s surprised to see him there, he can’t tell. Other telltale thoughts are flickering across his face. Without dropping his eyes, he closes his bedroom door. Both of his hands press into the wood behind his back. Quentin’s skin hums from the attention. There’s a chill spreading along his arms, as his own sweat starts to dry. Eliot’s eyes are growing darker by the second, as he just keeps _staring_.

His voice is low and raw when he asks Eliot, “Are you going to run off again?”

He breathes raggedly. “I. I was afraid,” he answers. “When I’m afraid, I run away.”

“Kissing me was pretty brave.”

“It was?”

He nods. The seconds drags on into eternity. Eliot already knows where he stands on all this. The next choice isn’t Quentin’s to make.

When Eliot starts forward, they collide like comets. Eliot’s arms circle him, one grasping onto his back, in the very center of his spine. Quentin grabs on too, ensnaring a span of ribs and a shoulder blade, like they’ll be torn apart again if he doesn’t. Under the skin of his neck, an artery thunders, beating frantically against the palm Eliot’s pressed there, to tilt his head back. They breathe together.

It’s just like he said in the boat. He’s anchored. The rest of the world has been spinning out of control. Hurtling through space, faster than he can comprehend. Now he’s fixed to Earth. Grounded, steadied, by the soft press of each finger to his pulse.

The mask in his memories fades away. Two figures finally merge in his mind. The surrealness of the audition. The soft, murmured questions in the ballroom, during their exquisite dance. The weight of a head on his shoulder. Those searching glances he’d borne from the stage. All from the same man.

They’re both seeing every detail anew. Memorizing them all again, everything more revealing and significant than ever before. Each carefully constructed identity is being stripped away with every blink. They aren’t a detached playwright and an anonymous actor. Nor are they a disaster from Stratford and a terrified merchant’s son. They’re so much more.

“Eliot?”

His name. _His_ name. His whole body shudders.

“Be brave again for me,” Quentin whispers.

Eliot surges down, and the fire ignites in his belly as they kiss again, harder, messier, their lips sliding open at once. He closes his eyes, and all he can do is _feel._ Eliot’s mouth is so hot, so demanding, and his tongue delves inside. He tastes the salt of his sweat. Smells the rich musk of his skin. He never appreciated how Eliot could tower over him like this. And he _likes_ it. Their lips part, only for Eliot to graze his teeth across his jaw, nipping, licking down to press kisses to his throat. His whole body _wants_ , and he doesn’t know what to do. Where to direct this _need_ blazing out of him. He presses his face to the velvet above Eliot’s heart, gasping, just trying to keep himself upright. His lungs fill with tobacco smoke, with old shaving foam, with dust from The Whitespire.

Eliot pushes the fabric of Quentin’s shirt aside, trailing kisses down his neck, until he growls, yanking off Quentin’s doublet entirely. It skids down and off his arms, breaking Quentin’s hold. He giggles as Eliot throws it to the floor. But then he’s pulling the folds of his tunic wider, his wet mouth trailing across his collarbone. It sends a rush of blood straight to Quentin’s dick, and he moans desperately. His hips grind against the firm pressure of Eliot’s thigh, and he gives into instinct. One hand slides down, grabbing a handful of Eliot’s ass, and he pushes them closer.

At that moment, Eliot breaks their contact, pulling away with a hiss.

Everything stutters to a halt. He should have realized. He hadn’t even felt Eliot’s… er, anything. Yes, it’s true, his kisses are making Quentin weak in the fucking knees, but he has to make sure Eliot’s also actually enjoying himself.

“You okay?”

“My – I. I need – just. Hold on.”

Mustering every sane thought he has left, Quentin lifts his hands away, breathing hard. He tries to smother every single butterfly fluttering in his chest. The gears in his head start turning. How can he say this right? How can he show him? That it’s all fine. That he doesn’t need to worry about his body. That he wants every part of him.

He blinks his eyes open, seeing Eliot’s ragged, mussed clothes. The wrecked look in his eyes makes his throat run dry. He’s so breathtaking, Quentin aches. He remembers what he wanted to do in The Whitespire. To place a crown on Eliot’s head. And then kneel. The thought of getting on his knees now, here, for him? Oh, he’d beg for the privilege.

He caresses the side of Eliot’s cheek. “I meant what I said yesterday. You’re not broken. You’re… beautiful to me. All of you.”

It takes Eliot a second. He blinks, then chokes back a laugh. He’s touched, and those words still strike a chord inside him. But there’s a glint in his eyes too. One that Quentin can’t quite figure out.

“Are… are you sure? What… whatever you see, you’ll still want me?”

“Yes,” he gasps, clutching his arms. “Eliot, please. I want everything.”

He pauses, letting the tension build. “Then take these off me,” he orders, his pupils dark and hungry.

Without breaking his stare, Quentin hooks his fingers around Eliot’s belt buckle. That earns him another delicious hiss, so he decides to be a little reckless. He’s rough with his tugs, jerking the buckle up and out. Once it’s undone, he tosses it to the floor. Taking more initiative, he teases him, bringing his mouth just out of reach. Every time Eliot lowers his head, Q draws back, and he repeats this over and over, while he maneuvers them closer to the bed. But he doesn’t let Eliot actually sit on the mattress. Oh no. He keeps a tight hold of his shirt, refusing to let him bend his knees.

This is a time for worship. For devotion.

He undoes the buttons on his trousers, and he finally allows Eliot a molten kiss as he slides his hands down the band of his pants, taking another handful of his round, perfect ass, pressing with his fingers, skin to skin. It earns him a deep, rich groan, and his cock jerks at the sound. He breaks their kiss with a sudden rush of cool air, and a gorgeous, dazed look envelops Eliot’s face as he pulls back. Quentin savors the sight. He’s never seen him like this.

What else can he do, to surprise him so completely?

With a single, gentle pull, he slides his trousers all the way to the floor, kneeling like a supplicant, and he lifts one leg after the other, tugging his boots off, and throwing his pants away. In the center of Eliot’s strong, firm hips, there’s a trail of enticing dark hair. It disappears behind the span of a single, tan hose, which bulges just a little. There’re two bands of garter stretching through it, and then around both of his thighs, keeping the hose in place.

Q doesn’t think, doesn’t question. Inspiration strikes again. He presses slow, open kisses along his thigh, trailing through the course hair leading up to his target. He sees Eliot’s hands shake at his sides. Biting back a grin, with in one smooth tug, his hands pull the garter bands down. Eliot shifts his weight, opening his stance.

And. Quentin almost falls back on his heels.

There’s.

Eliot’s.

“Like what you see?” Eliot says, breathless, and so wickedly, damnably pleased.

God. Fuck yes. He’s had _that_ this whole time? Jesus. _Jesus_.

Eliot’s cock is getting harder before his eyes. It’s flushed, glistening, and so _big_ , and Quentin ends up running his tongue along the roof of his mouth before he realizes he’s doing it.

He goes to wrap his fingers around the length, pleasure racing through him when he feels the hot weight in his hands. Eliot makes a single, loud whimper. “Q.”

It takes him a moment to find his voice. “Y-yes?”

“Can… fuck, can’t believe I’m – Can we wait?”

Oh. Right. Tucking himself. For half a _day_. Of course Eliot’s bound to be hypersensitive. Q coughs. “S-shit, yeah, uh.” He almost falls back on his ass again.

Eliot’s quick thinking saves him. He swoops down, catching him and cupping his neck. Against his lips, he whispers, somehow still sounding _very_ pleased with him, “I just need a minute.” Then he’s sliding his arms under his. “Come here.” He nips his lower lip, lifts him, and they’re suddenly toppling onto the bed together.

A heady rush surges down his spine. Eliot’s kissing him relentlessly as they sink into the sheets. The heat from his broad chest radiates across his skin as he peels off Quentin’s clothes. It’s all Quentin can do to keep up, practically attacking Eliot’s doublet, until they’re both bare. And it’s better than he could’ve ever dreamed. From above, Eliot’s surrounding him, his limbs caging him, and that musky _Eliot_ smell is everywhere. The dusting of hair on his chest tickles against one of Quentin’s nipples. Their kisses turn filthy, tongues sliding against each other. His cock, hard and aching, leaves a streak of precum on Eliot’s thigh, while Eliot’s hangs tauntingly heavy between their bodies.

Eliot pants, as his hand ghosts along Quentin’s hip, “Tell me…”

It’s like an echo, calling back to their time on the wall. Quentin can only manage a groan in answer, mouthing at a stretch of skin on his throat.

Eliot chuckles, kissing his forehead. Not to be deterred for too long, he captures Quentin’s mouth again, running his tongue along his. When he comes up for air, he murmurs, “When your ‘pen’ found its way into your hand, is this what you thought of?”

He shivers. “N-nearly.” His hips are bucking up, almost out of his control. Every part of his brain is desperate for more contact. Desperate to touch, to treasure and cherish, and bring every pleasure to this man. The man who’s seen him in the darkness, and, miraculously, _wants_ him, just as intensely.

But he restrains himself, doubt prickling in his head. In case Eliot’s still not ready for that. Physically. Or. In other ways.

Because Quentin knows. He knows he’s already gone. He’d thought it the other night, and it still holds true now: anyone who found their way into his heart, stayed there.

Eliot pulls back, reading the hesitation in his tense shoulders. Taking Quentin’s wrist, he guides it down. Their joined hands wrap around Quentin’s dick together. Quentin gasps, moaning as he can’t help but fuck up into their coupled fists.

Eliot bends down, hovering his mouth right over Quentin’s, breathing in every sound. “Describe it. Use your words, poet.”

Everything in him is burning. From the memory, and the overwhelming glide of their laced hands. Every downward stroke spreads more slick from his cockhead. He doesn’t want this to be over, but he can’t fight the building pressure.

It was true. After he’d put the last period on Act One, he’d collapsed into bed, a few hours left before sunrise. His hand had curled around himself in the dark. As he was then, so he is now. There’s no resistance left in him. His words rush out.

“I finished writing, and… I imagined you… lifting your mask. Taking me apart. Your mouth. God, your mouth just… swallowed me down.” He whines, squeezing his eyes shut, “I wanted to be inside you. To f-f…”

“To what?” Eliot pushes, tightening his hold around his hand, making him squeeze.

“To fuck you. So, so slowly, until you… you begged me to come. But, but then I wanted–” He starts to add a twist to the slide of their hands, taking over the momentum. “I wanted you inside me, filling me up, making me scream your name.”

Eliot takes his hand away. As Quentin opens his eyes, bereft, he sees Eliot pressing two smeared fingers into his own mouth. He matches every one of his strokes, his eyes on fire, swirling his tongue, hollowing his mouth, his lips. A drop of spit falls onto Quentin’s chest.

He sucks in as much air through he can through his clenched teeth. It’s as though he’s being pinned down by Eliot’s eyes. Like they’re casting a spell on his body, and he’s gladly surrendered to it. Hapless, he watches as Eliot starts reaching down, and he feels him rub a wet finger along his perineum, and then going lower, to circle his hole. Quentin groans, his hand stuttering around his dick, when Eliot pushes that finger inside him.

He’s never been connected to anyone like this. Entirely in their hands. That breathtaking burn. Not unfamiliar, but ten times as incredible, as he trusts someone else with all control. Eliot seems to know just how gently to take him apart. Never pressing too hard. Caressing the sensitive skin along his thigh with his other hand, before he suddenly lifts it, exposing him even more. Encouraging the stretch, one knuckle at a time. Fuck, it’s so good. Being opened, gazed at, seen.

“Keep talking, baby,” Eliot whispers.

The tenderness throws Quentin even more off his axis. It’s all too impossible. All too real. “I’ve – I feel – like you’re the c-composer. And I’m just some clerk trying, trying to, to scribble down every note of music.”

That pleased smile shining on his face. Quentin swears he will do _anything_ to earn it for the rest of his life. It’s terrifying, and _thrilling_ , how adamant he is. Two days isn’t long enough, not long enough at all. But the decision might as well be engraved onto his heart.

“Should I slow down?” Eliot teases.

He has just enough clarity left to pump his cock faster. “God, don’t stop.”

A few moments later though, excruciatingly, Eliot does. Pulling his finger out, he shifts his knees, leaning away. Quentin almost reaches for him, seconds from begging him to come back, but there’s no need. He’s only gone to fetch a small bottle. He pries out the cork, coating his hand in oil, lavender filling the air. He returns to massaging that little ring of muscle, smoothly slipping his finger inside. As though making up for his absence, he even dribbles a trail over Quentin’s hand, and he moans in relief, coating his cock with it. On their own, his hips start pressing back, surging down on that long, warm finger inside him.

Eliot’s staring at him, barely blinking, barely breathing. “Look at you. I can’t believe you’re here,” he marvels. “I can’t believe this is real. That I’ve held you. Kissed you. Tasted you.”

He tries to gather his breath. Tries to give him the words he wants. “I can’t… I can’t…”

But Quentin’s losing himself around the edges. There’s too much to process. To feel. Eliot adds a second finger, and he barely notices. His gasps are so loud in his own ears. His balls are heavy, ready. Everything’s building, but nothing’s enough to reach that threshold.

Until Eliot says, as breathless as he is, “Q.” And then, joyously, “Love.” And raw emotion overtakes his eyes. But instead of running away, he tenderly presses their lips together, into the sweetest, softest kiss. And he crooks his fingers, finding that perfect spot of pleasure inside. Quentin comes without meaning to, crying out in bliss, robbed of all thought. His cock spurts between them, painting hot ropes on their skin and dripping down his hand. Eliot kisses him through it all, encouraging every drop of release with his touch.

It feels like an age passes before Quentin returns to his body. And Eliot’s still there, still touching him so gently.

“God,” he gasps, his chest heaving. The motion brushes their chests together, his come slipping between them. “El...”

He stills for a moment, a shiver overtaking him. “That good, huh? Can’t even manage my full name?” He collapses next to him on his side, grinning roguishly. His full, gorgeous, barely-touched cock lies neglected between them. Like he’ll get to it at some point, whenever he wants to.

But Quentin knows when an actor is about to break character. He can hear the twinge in his voice. And that raw look is still there, barely hidden behind his quips. As boneless as Quentin feels, he’s not about to drift off. Not without returning everything Eliot’s given to him.

Mustering every ounce of energy he has left, he caresses the side of Eliot’s face, smirking. “Oh, don’t worry,” he whispers. “I still have my silver tongue.”

He kisses a line down Eliot’s chest, cutting off his exasperated laugh when he presses his teeth to one of his nipples. Pushing Eliot’s hips as he goes, the touch guides him onto his back. He smirks again as a punch-drunk look takes over Eliot’s face once he settles between his legs. He reaches that trail of hair, the one that’d so teased him earlier, and raises his eyes, meeting Eliot’s heady stare across his soft belly. Checking in, ensuring he wants this, that he’s ready to be touched.

And the façade falls away.

“Please,” Eliot says. His voice is _ruined_.

Quentin opens his mouth, lapping along the side with his tongue. He follows a vein further up, and takes the head between his lips. A stuttering breath from Eliot is all the encouragement he needs. The taste is sharp and very bitter along the slit. And there’s already a stretched ache in his jaw. It’s so fucking good. He prays he doesn’t fuck this up. Wrapping a hand around him, he guides his cock further into his mouth. He’s rewarded with a loud “Oh, fuuuuck,” and a thrill lances through his heart.

Without much practice under his belt, he’s sloppy; plain and simple. He grazes his teeth along Eliot’s sheath more than once. Sometimes, he takes in too much, too fast. But when he pulls back to get some air, Eliot’s staring above his head, with a surprised smile on his face. His eyes are getting a little crossed, losing focus, and he gives a single, winded laugh. It shows Quentin he can keep going, can stretch his mouth a bit further, to lick and suck and mouth and give and give.

“Touch me,” he says.

The words bring Eliot back to earth for a moment. He looks like he’s starving. Wanting and uncertain all at once. So Quentin goes for his hand, the one still awash with oil, lightly tracing a spiral along the back. The touch sends fire through his whole body, like _that_ is somehow far more intimate than anything else. Steady and sure, he brings Eliot’s hand over, and presses a wet, spit-slick kiss straight to his palm.

Eliot widens his legs without realizing it, his lungs almost failing him when Quentin then brings that hand onto his head. It darkens a few locks of his hair with oil. He takes Eliot back into his mouth. Eliot sucks in air though his teeth, and lets his fingers tighten. His other hand comes up, tangling in his hair too. A long moan from Quentin earns a jerking thrust from his hips. Their eyes meet, color blazing along Eliot’s cheeks and chest, like there’s _still_ some doubt plaguing his thoughts. Quentin stares up through his eyelashes, unblinking, as he drags his tongue back and forth along the underside, and moans even louder. Just in time, he slackens his jaw completely as Eliot thrusts up again.

“I’m close, Q,” he warns.

Quentin swallows in response, stretching his lips, and he braces himself on Eliot’s thighs. He sinks down the farthest he can, only managing a little more than halfway, but it’s enough. Eliot snaps his hips, finally letting himself have this. Quentin’s spit dribbles down his jaw, and he holds his breath as Eliot takes his pleasure. He can feel his balls tightening under his chin, feels his limbs shaking as he fucks his mouth with abandon, feels the friction of his dick along his palate, feels his own head become beautifully empty as he's just _used,_ until one final thrust makes him nearly choke. Hot, bitter come shoots down his throat. Coughing, his cock slips out of his mouth, and more hits his swollen lips, his nose, his cheek.

As he catches his breath, he sees Eliot collapse back onto his pillows, chest heaving. The sight is…beyond words. He thinks he could bring himself off all over again, just from this alone, if he wasn’t so deliciously tired, and… and happy?

_Happy._

He doesn’t realize how long he stays like that. Kneeling and drinking in Eliot’s bliss. Watching the last of his seed leak onto his hips as he softens, until Eliot gathers himself back together, opening his eyes to find Quentin staring at him.

The vulnerability between them now is striking. Should he say something? Praise him? Does Eliot want some space, some time? Will he have to leave now, so he doesn’t risk discovery from the rest of the house?

But Eliot’s smiling so softly, and he opens his arms to him. Quentin, relieved, crawls into the embrace, forgetting that his face is still dripping until he goes to nuzzle into Eliot’s chest. He has to bring himself up short when he realizes.

All at once, they’re both giggling, and the uncertainty drains away. It’s a light, beautiful, comforting sound. Acknowledging how they’d both been overcome, madcap, in their need for each other.

Eliot reaches into the bedside drawer again and comes back with a kerchief to wipe them both down, trailing it over Quentin’s face. He doesn’t catch all of it. The sheets are damp and sticky here and there. Giving up, he tosses it to the floor, and suddenly wraps his arms around him. Quentin’s struck to the core as Eliot presses a kiss to his tousled hair. Without a word, he then settles Quentin’s head beneath his chin, and weaves their legs together, caressing his back. Eliot yawns, stretching his limbs one final time, and they sink into the pillows together. His breathing deepens, already drifting. Quentin takes a deep breath too, feeling every place where Eliot’s touching him.

It’d be very easy, to start overthinking all this. Very, very easy.

Fuck it.

He brings his arms up, hugging Eliot to him tightly, and lets himself fall into the deepest, safest, loveliest sleep he’s had in a long, long time.


	9. Act Three, Scene One

Eliot dreams of clouds, and he wakes convinced he’s been sleeping among them for hours. Softness shifts along his limbs. And he’s warm. As though he’s been bathing in sunlight. The kind of heat that only comes from sharing a bed.

* * *

[ ](https://yourtinseltinkerbell.tumblr.com/post/630338702413119488/eliot-dreams-of-clouds-and-he-wakes-convinced)

* * *

There’s a dip in the mattress, and the sheets continue to slide off, exposing his chest to the early morning air. A floorboard creaks, and Eliot tries not to inhale too deeply, to give himself away. He’s curious, and trying very hard not to let either hope or dismay overtake him, until he knows more.

The floorboard creaks again – weight being taken off. Light steps pad along the floor. And there’s a gentle trickle of water, just a bit of splashing, against the sides of the basin beside his bed. Hands dipping in, and bringing the water up and out. And… the water then dribbles back down, as it sluices across skin. The same little trickling sounds repeat and repeat, for a long time. So long in fact, that Eliot has to crack an eye open.

Quentin’s combing his fingers through his hair. It’s less about washing away the evidence of last night, and more just to get his hair under control. It really is a scraggly mess. Plastered strands here. Bent, intertwined parts there. He’s squinting at the mirror above the basin, his face scrunched up in concentration, as he tries more water.

He’s never seen Quentin put any effort into his appearance. Those old boots. His durable but very worn clothes. His callused, nimble, ink-blotched hands. His stained cuffs. And those nails, bitten almost to the quick. Yet here he is, trying. Being just a tad vain. It’s an unexpected moment of intimacy, watching him like this. Seeing him care about what he looks like, just a little. It brings to mind a fantasy Eliot never knew he wanted, until now: sharing a bath with him. Nestling Quentin between his legs, maneuvering their limbs so they both fit in the tub. Quentin bending forward as Eliot takes a clay jug, dips it into the water, and pours it over his head. Working his fingers through, massaging his scalp, trails of soap sluicing down. Pouring more water with the jug. And then, just when Quentin least expects it, guiding him to lean back again, turning his head, and kissing him. Feeling Quentin smile against his mouth before he returns the kiss, water trickling down their cheeks. Making him feel cared for. Making him happy.

It’s shockingly domestic. Completely against anything that Eliot’s ever thought he wanted. Or deserved. His chest tightens. He doesn’t even know what to do with the image. Whether he should get rid of it, or hold it close, and hope to act on it one day.

Satisfied that he’s tamed the bird’s nest as much as he can – well, short of dunking his whole head in – Quentin turns, catching Eliot’s stare.

He tugs himself out of the daydream, schooling his face. Neither of them move. They could both be cowards now. They’ve gotten it out of their system, right? Quentin’s clothes aren’t too far away. He can make his excuses. And Eliot’s more than capable of not inviting him back to bed. Or, he could even just stay quiet altogether, and let Quentin make all the choices here.

Then again….

He slides his hand out of the blankets. At the same time, Quentin takes the tiniest step forward.

They both inhale sharply, seeing they’ve both made a move. Almost like a game, Eliot makes the next play, trailing a light touch across his own chest, as though scratching a faint itch. Quentin’s choice? To lick his lips, and push half of his hair behind his ears. The water drips on his bare shoulder, plotting a trail down his chest, his thin ribs, his minor pudge of a belly, and finally, his hips.

Oh, that’s just not fair. He didn’t even mean for that to happen, did he?

Eliot can’t help it. He follows the droplets with his eyes, tracing the curves of that wonderful body. The body of the man he’d _cradled_ in his arms last night. And Q’d held him _back_. They’d fallen asleep together, completely at peace. As if it was the most natural thing in the world, rather than an entirely new experience. He stares at his lovely, soft cock, remembering how it felt to guide his hand. He sees Quentin’s breath catch in his throat again.

Just a little hope couldn’t hurt, right?

When he lifts his eyes, he shifts. Encourages. Welcomes. The bare expanse of his own hips peeks out beneath the linen, barely hiding anything. He stretches his arm out.

If there is one thing he’s starting to learn, from the days they’ve spent together? Quentin isn’t a patient man. He can plot a story like no one else, but games aren’t his forte. He can agonize over different choices, but in the end, maybe after some light prodding, he _acts_. Eliot can see the moment things change. He starts forward, tugging the sheet aside and climbing back onto the bed. Vaulting a leg over, Quentin plants his hands on Eliot’s chest. He settles on his hips, stealing the air from his lungs. When Eliot doesn’t respond, only because he’s still catching up, Q… stops. Uncertain all over again.

This staggers him. It’s all new for him too, isn’t it?

More hope spreads through his chest. Though his limbs are almost liquid, his thoughts are getting clearer by the minute. He’s so used to sex being… transactional. Take what you want from me, so long as I can have what I need from you.

Quentin doesn’t take.

Or if he does, maybe it’s only after someone offers first? After someone tells him it’s okay? It’s hard to know for certain.

He thinks of the letter he’d forced himself to write. Trying to spare Quentin’s unguarded heart – and amputate his own. To prepare himself for the half-life he… might not’ve… wound up actually living, for too long. And how Quentin hadn’t given up; had refused to accept any of it. Only because it would break Eliot’s heart if he did.

He thinks of the poetic compliments Q’d just… _spouted_ in the boat. With barely any prompting. Believing the one person who needed to hear them most was far off, not inches away.

He remembers Quentin’s encouragements, about his bravery. Proving to Eliot that he wants this. Without any intention of having his own needs met first.

And Eliot could show him, couldn’t he? Show him how to want, to _take_. To be so wild, that he loses all consideration, going mindless with desire. The thought is more addictive than any drug Eliot’s tried before. He’s always the one in control, when it comes to his bed. But imagining Quentin fucking him, fast, hard, out of his mind. Eliot’s tantalized by the idea. He _wants_ to trust him that much. Badly. He craves it.

“Hey…” Quentin says, still hesitant.

“Hey,” he echoes, still caught up in his own thoughts

He sees him. Sees that Quentin – a humble, genius playwright, who always managed to capture what it means to be human, like it was easy – has decided to chase after _him_ , Eliot Waugh, each time he’s run away. He sees that Quentin, despite his own hardships and fears and sadness, has given in to hope. Every time they’ve looked at each other. He’s hoped.

Eliot drops his guard, puts his hands on Quentin’s waist, and smiles.

The change in his expression, his sudden sincerity, makes Quentin blink. “I…um.”

Perhaps he’s thinking his words might get in the way. Perhaps he’s worried they might not come out just right. Even though, for Eliot, they always do, because they’re _his._ Whatever the reason, he doesn’t say more. He swoops down and kisses him instead. It’s quick and lovely and makes Eliot feel like he’s shining.

Quentin pulls back, biting his lips as a big smile threatens to escape. Little crow’s-feet wrinkles appear around his adorable brown eyes. Warmth floods through Eliot’s heart. Whatever they are to each other, Quentin’s defining it, just a little bit.

Eliot moves to caress his arm, filling in some of the definition too. There’s no weight or oppression here, in the shelter of his bed. No responsibilities right now, except to each other.

“Did you really not know it was me?” he teases, rubbing the water droplets into his skin with his other hand.

Quentin’s face contorts, into an embarrassed, smiling grimace. Either from his thick-headedness, or…wait, is he ticklish? Eliot wants to kiss every unfairly cute inch of him to find out.

“I think I kinda did?” Q says. “Every time I was with you, I got reminded of all these little things. Moments that stuck with me, from dancing with you, and sitting with you. I wanted you to be…” He chuckles. “I wanted you to be _you_ , every time.”

Eliot angles his head to the side. His short hair snags against his pillow. “But you never asked.”

“Well, what if I was wrong?” At Eliot’s sardonic look, Quentin huffs, acknowledging the point. “Still,” he continues, “it takes a lot. For me to trust my own mind.”

And then he shrugs. It’s the natural state of things, for him.

For Eliot, the admission is jarringly candid. All over again, he’s struck by how little they know each other. And yet, how they’ve also, already, become so much more than mere strangers. All the things he’s expected Quentin to hide – that the rest of the world would expect him to hide too, or else it’d cart him off to the asylum – he just… doesn’t. Not with Eliot. And Eliot’s started to reciprocate that, without realizing, all on his own. Because he wants to. They seem to have a habit of just… revealing things to each other.

And that’s maddening. Eliot’s supposed to keep all his cards close. Supposed to let no one through the gates.

Yet he finds himself admitting, “Me too, sometimes.” Like it’s easy.

He’s losing just a bit of feeling in his foot, so he shimmies his hips. Quentin tenses up, as Eliot’s cock brushes against him from behind. Q’s eyes flutter, and the faint grey sunlight lends more color to the blush that rises on his cheeks. Eliot didn’t mean to shift whatever’s building between them. But… he’s not about to dampen that heat simmering under his skin either.

He hasn’t had his fill of Quentin Coldwater. Not by a long shot.

When his eyes focus back again, Q tilts his head. Gears turn inside that beautiful mind of his. He starts rocking back and forth, letting Eliot feel the delicate cleft of his soft, pert ass. Now Eliot’s the one overwhelmed by sensation, his eyes rolling up.

“And what about you? Did _you_ really need to hide yourself?” Quentin says.

Eliot bites his lip, feeling himself getting hard. The friction is fucking delicious. A sweet, hypnotic drag, and the faint tease of Q’s puckered hole every so often.

But the question’s so open ended. What kind of answer is he looking for?

“You mean – mmm, ah – why present myself as…”

Quentin rocks, even more, building a steady rhythm. “Why make your identity so… complicated?”

That still doesn’t give him much to go on. Q’s doing this on purpose, isn’t he? Letting Eliot decide what the questions mean. So that his answers – or lack of them – will say more than they usually would. Maybe he does play games after all. And he’s _good_ at them.

Well, Eliot doesn’t give in that easy. “What do you mean?”

A flush is growing on Q’s face. It spreads down his neck and his naked chest, just like the water. His cock is thickening. His sweat’s sticking to the back of his thighs. Unlike Eliot, his eyes are fixated, rapt. “No one would’ve thought you were noble, walking onto our stage,” he murmurs. Suddenly, he slows down, making sure they’re both feeling every teasing inch. Forward. Baaackward. Fuck, he’s such a _tease._ “You could’ve mostly just played, you know, yourself.” He tilts forward, “Why play a harder part,” then shifts backward again, “on top of whatever role we gave you?”

Eliot tries to keep his eyes open. It’d be so easy, so much safer, to squeeze them shut, to give in to the urges thrumming through his body. All he has to do is rise up. Capture his mouth all over again. Guide him onto his hands and knees, lick him open until they’re both a shaking mess, before plunging his cock into that gorgeous, tight heat just waiting to take him in.

Otherwise… there are answers he’d give Quentin. Things he could say, that would let him in even more. And he’s not ready. His mind’s telling him to run away again.

“The best way to hide is getting more attention,” he says, raising an eyebrow and grinning wickedly. Hiding.

Quentin squints, his mouth drawn into a line. Like he knows that’s not _quite_ right. Kindly, he doesn’t push, and lets them both pretend he’s satisfied with that. He says, “Is that what I’m giving you right now? Attention?” and licks his bottom lip.

Eliot lets himself groan in answer, a deep, drawn out song, just to watch Quentin’s mouth open and his eyes cloud over. “Well, you’re definitely giving me a lot of ideas.”

“My work does have that effect on people.”

Eliot finally moves, bending his knees. His thighs come up against Quentin’s back. Surprised, he starts to fall a bit, and Eliot reaches out to cup the back of his neck. He bends him farther forward. Quentin has to brace his hands beside Eliot’s head, and their noses brush, their lips an inch apart. Eliot keeps him there, so his breath ghosts across Quentin’s mouth. He can feel him quivering; feel his hot dick pressing into the divot of his belly. He’s so pliant, so ready to be taken apart. He can snark and jest one moment, and drop all pretenses the next. He’s unpredictable. He’s beautiful. He’s _Eliot’s_.

“I do enjoy your work,” Eliot whispers, and wastes no more time. He surges up, kissing him hard.

This, he knows how to do. How to do well. This is familiar territory. This is safe.

Quentin moans as he opens his lips, pressing forward with his tongue, drawing it along the roof of his mouth. He brings his hand to side of Eliot’s head, digging into his short curls. They’re so close now, and Quentin’s kissing him and kissing him, each one long and lingering, all shared breath and delicious heat.

“And I enjoy your mouth,” Eliot says. He sucks on his bottom lip, then brings his arm around. He drags his middle finger down Quentin’s spine. “And the sounds you make with it.” He dips that finger lower still, nudging Quentin’s legs apart with his. Quentin moans again, almost a whine, as his length gets trapped between their bodies. His wet hair falls around Eliot’s head. Eliot wants to hear that sound for hours. For years.

Eliot thrusts with his hips, sliding their chests together, sliding his dick so, so close to where he could push inside. Their heartbeats thud out of time.

Before Eliot can push that his finger into his hole, or tease the muscle with the big head of his cock, he realizes Quentin’s not so pliant after all. With one quick roll, Quentin’s changed their positions. Now Eliot’s above him, gasping and catching his breath. His hand is pinned beneath them.

“I enjoy…” Quentin says, meeting his eyes. He swallows. Then the hesitation disappears from his face. “I enjoy your smiles.” His words catch in the back of his throat, but he goes on. “All of them. I enjoy… how you can… say a million things with your face, and how I can only put words to half of them–”

“Stop it, you could,” Eliot scoffs. He wants to shy away from the compliments. They’re getting through the chinks in his armor. They’re an invading force, and he has to put up a barricade.

“No…” Quentin says, frowning. While Eliot struggles to get a hold of himself, Quentin does the job for him. He brings both of his hands to the side of Eliot’s face. His thumbs brush along his cheeks. A radiant smile, sunlight through an overcast day, overtakes him. Like he’s just realizing the truth of what he’s about to say, right as he insists, “I couldn’t. I could try, but… I’d fail. All the words out there couldn’t capture you. You, um, kinda defy description, you know?”

And then Quentin wriggles a bit, freeing his limbs just to wrap them around Eliot. Thrown off balance from the weight, Eliot ends up collapsing down into the bed, grunting in discomfort as his wrist twinges. But Quentin is laughing, at all this, at them, and Eliot finds the praise has sunk in, before he can reject it. It’s settling over his heart without his permission, wrapping it in warmth and affection, and suddenly he’s chuckling too.

Quentin’s eyelashes bat against the underside of his chin, tickling him. He’s peppering kisses everywhere, Eliot’s nose and his brow and cheekbones and throat. Their cocks have started rubbing together, and the very air seems to shift and spark, as the atmosphere between them changes all over again. Eliot fits himself between Quentin’s legs. He proffers his palm, and Quentin goes for it eagerly, lapping at it with his tongue, so Eliot can dip back down and spread their lengths in slick and sweat and precome to ease the friction. He’s the one rolling his hips now, and they groan together, rut together.

Quentin slips both of his hands down, grasping the cheeks of his ass and pulling him closer, _grinding_. Hunger, a consuming fire, roars up his back. They undo each other, with the sound of their cocks sliding together, with the thrusts that grow in force and their gasps and moans, loud enough to almost put them in danger. Just when Quentin’s on the brink, he kisses him. Kisses his generous, amazing Quentin, so close to him, closer than anyone has ever been, and that makes his release rip through him like an explosion. He comes, spots dancing in his eyes. His face turns to press into the pillow, panting, and Quentin whines loudly in his ear as Eliot’s hips snap and stutter, his seed coating the hot space where they’re pressed closest together. He sucks a mark against Quentin’s neck, jamming his hand between them and grasping his dick. He pumps him fast, mercilessly, until he’s coming too, clinging to Eliot with abandon.

* * *

* * *

When their minds clear, Eliot kisses him again. Softly, adoringly. Quentin can barely kiss him back, he’s so blissed out, and Eliot’s heart feels full to bursting. They clean each other with the sheets – they’re thoroughly beyond use, now – and toss them to the floor. They wind their arms around each other all over again, keeping each other warm. Quentin’s lying half across him, and he nuzzles his head above Eliot’s heart. Eliot presses his nose into his wet hair. Their combined scents fill his chest. He brushes Quentin’s hair back behind his ear, stroking along his arm.

Every so often as they doze, not quite slipping back to sleep, they kiss again. There’s no reason to fight against the desire. Nothing’s holding them back, so they shamelessly, gladly, share their quiet happiness with each other.

A long time later, Quentin shifts. At first Eliot thinks nothing of it. He does it again a few minutes after. Then he takes a deep lungful of air, and lets it back out again.

Concern taps along the edge of Eliot’s conscience. “Something on your mind?”

“When isn’t there,” Q mutters, trying for lightness. Nothing comes after that.

If Quentin doesn’t want to open up, Eliot’s the last person who’s allowed to pry. After last night? Sure, he is _learning_ how to be brave. Learning to let someone else in. That doesn’t mean he capable of doing it all the time, if this morning’s anything to go by.

But Quentin seems to be willing to try, for the both of them, in the meantime.

“Do you, you know, ever feel like, um, like you always have to play a role? That you always have to be… a character, and not yourself?” he says after a pause.

Blinking, Eliot rolls the question around in his head. It’s probably from their conversation before. About playing harder parts.

Maybe Quentin’s not so content to let Eliot get away with flippancies after all. Every other simpering lord and lady Eliot socializes with does. They enjoy them. They even try to one-up anything he says, with haughty japes of their own. Everything is so obviously rehearsed. And Eliot’s no better. He hasn’t stopped wearing a mask since he was a boy.

He decides to give a genuine answer. Or at least, one that might help. To let Q know he’s not alone, just like he always lets Eliot know the same. “For people like us?” he says. “Don’t… don’t we have to?”

Quentin pulls his head away, dropping it onto a pillow. When Eliot turns on his side, their eyes meet across the linen threads. Q blinks several times, opening up his mouth and closing it, as the words try to come out before he’s ready.

Eliot bites the inside of his cheek. That maybe wasn’t the right thing to say. It’s still too vague. The tricky part about playing a role outside of the theater? No one gives you your lines. You have to come up with them yourself. And you can never really know what effect they’ll have on your scene partner.

“Do we? Have to?” Quentin asks, staring at him. Like he believes Eliot really does know the answer.

Eliot nearly lists off everything that’s kept them apart so far. The “civilized” world lies just outside his bedroom, after all. It still has its laws. Its customs.

But he can’t do that. Nor would he want to. So many things out there have tried to break the two of them. Opening up a little more, being even more vulnerable with Quentin, might strengthen them both, so they can face all that together.

He slowly reaches over, taking Q’s hand. He wraps his fingers around it, holding it between them. “Not when I hear your words,” he confesses. “Not when… not when I’m with you.” He feels as raw as he had the other night, up on that plinth of marble.

Quentin sputters. “My words _make_ the roles. They’re make-believe. They reflect real life; they don’t create it.”

“They made me,” Eliot says simply. “The real me. Underneath all my disguises."

Quentin’s mouth spasms. It’s sort of funny, watching him struggle and wrestle with hearing how much he matters to Eliot. Watching him struggle with a genuine law of Eliot’s universe. But he knows what’d be even better. He’s not sure he has the guts for this.

But fuck it.

Royally: fuck it.

“How… how about this?” Eliot says. His eyes dart all over the room. But he squeezes his hand even tighter. “I can’t promise this when we’re with other people. But how about we… promise to be ourselves, when we’re with each other? Sound good?” Finally, he forces himself to look straight ahead.

Those gorgeous brown eyes get so, so big. As big as his heart. Speechless really is a good look on Q. His hand flutters up, grabbing onto Eliot’s shoulder. He shakes his head… but then he frowns even more, reconsidering, and nods.

Until he shakes his head again. He opens his mouth, and clamps it shut.

There’s something he’s trying to get out. His kiss-swollen lips purse. So Eliot shakes his head, leans in, and brushes their nose together, back and forth, staring into his eyes with more affection than he can help. _Open up to me, Quentin,_ he wants to whisper, so he says it with a kiss instead. He kisses his hand, then leans over and kisses his mouth, without much heat. Reassurance. Connection. _Take your time, I’m not going anywhere._

A faint echo filters in through the balcony doorway. Q pulls away from him, staring at it.

“What?”

Quentin rubs a hand over his face. “A rooster, I think?”

The distant crowing noise sounds again.

“So?” Eliot says.

Licking his lips, Q turns back. And he looks really, really sorry. “If people are awake– If someone sees me leave…” He stares out at the balcony, like he’s waiting for another caw to prove his point.

“We’ve got plenty of time,” Eliot soothes, running a hand along Quentin’s back. He snuggles into the touch, even as he can’t stop looking at that damn doorway, and Eliot wants to never let him go. “I think that that rooster’s actually an owl?”

“What?”

“That’s an owl,” Eliot repeats, and he draws Q’s body closer.

“The sun’s rising, though.”

He shakes his head, smiling like he has a secret. “No, that’s just _very_ bright moonlight." _Let’s play another game_ , his grin says. _Let’s pretend, just for a little longer._ He swoops in, mouthing kisses along that spot on Quentin’s neck. The one he’s discovered makes him shiver and weak and happy.

Of course it works. He responds with kisses of his own. “Yeah,” he breathes, so deliciously eager. “Yeah, that’s just the moon.”

“Mmm hmm.” Eliot trails a touch across his ribs, following it with his mouth. He’s rewarded with a little bit of babbling, as Quentin fills in the rest of the details for himself. Improvising as he goes.

“There’s an owl, and the stars are out, and we’ve got hours and hours, and, and screw Josh and his pages.”

Eliot breaks away, leaning back. “Um. Hold on.”

Q doesn’t stop. He goes for Eliot’s collarbone, laving it with his tongue. “It’s still dark, and I can hold you and kiss you and–”

“Did you just say Mr. Hoberman’s not getting ANY pages?”

“Uh huh,” Quentin snickers, very proud of himself.

Oh.

Oh no.

What kind of monster has Eliot created.

“Hang on, Q,” he says, trying to gently extricate them from each other. “Looks like it’s day after all.”

“No no no,” Q complains. “You _said_. You said it’s moonlight.”

“My bad. That is, in fact, a rooster.”

Quentin’s really getting insatiable. He’s licking behind Eliot’s ear. Sucking another mark into his neck. Eliot is this close to giving in. He’s the one with all the power now. If he decides they’re going to stay here all day, he _can_ make that happen. Just get Todd to bring them meals, maybe a bath later, and they can stay here as long as they like. Oh God, that’d be heaven.

Except.

Eliot’s an actor. And fuck him, but he’s a _fan_. He has to know what happens next. Letting himself come between Q and his brilliant work? Eliot is devious, but he’s not the devil incarnate.

Very affectionately, he pries them apart, nearly pushing Q off the bed. He forces himself to set his jaw in a hard line, and glares at Quentin with just a little bit of steel in his voice. “Listen. Think. I’m… I’m doing this for your own good. I’d like nothing more than to spend the day in bed with you. But you’re telling me you want to leave all of us actors – leave _Margo_ – with nothing new today? Are you _tr_ _ying_ to get murdered?”

Q visibly gulps, and starts pushing himself out of bed.

And Eliot even decides to behave himself. He doesn’t leer _too_ much, while he watches Quentin put his clothes back on. He encourages him, hinting at just how much he wants to know what happens next. Reciting some of the lines he remembers.

Q winds up with his jacket on inside out. He careens into the bed while he’s hopping on one foot to put his boots back on. “Okay. Right. Ready. I’ll see you soon?”

No matter how casual the question, Eliot can hear what’s behind it. He rises from the bed, fighting a smile. Color blooms on Q’s cheeks as Eliot takes off his jacket, fixes it, and slides it back onto his shoulders.

“Very soon. Think of all the new things you can make me say,” he purrs. “All the poetry you’ll hear me recite. All you need to do? Is write it.” And he cups his jaw, stroking a thumb along his cheek.

Quentin abruptly hugs him, hard. Eliot blinks, but he wraps his arms around him too, feeling their hearts beat the same rhythm.

One last chance to change his mind. He doesn’t have to let him go, does he? Quentin _fits_ here. Like he was destined to fit here. Like Eliot was destined to hold him forever.

Q slides his arms off with a huff. Eliot doesn't expect to feel so horrible... _bereft_. He can’t resist following him to the doorway. He even goes all the way over to the balcony as Quentin hikes over it, one leg after the other. They silently stare at each other, offering no goodbyes as Q climbs down and crosses the grass. When he turns back for one last glance, he gives a single, melancholic wave. Eliot’s heart climbs into his throat. He doesn’t take his eyes off Quentin until the little shape of him flags down a big barge heading back into the city, and he hops aboard.

Only then does Eliot let out all the air in his chest.

Did that really happen? Did a dozen of his dreams just… come true? Just like that?

And he didn’t even have to sell his soul for it....

He feels a little drunk. Starving. There’s this pressure in his chest. Like he’s missing a limb, or like someone’s bored a hole into something vital, and he might not survive like this much longer.

He reminds himself it’s only for a few hours. He's got to report to The Whitespire on his own time anyway. It's better like this. They can't be seen coming in together. He’ll have Quentin’s smile, and his wresting gaze, on him again soon enough. He’ll be close by all day. Hovering along the edges of the stage. They’ll be playing their parts again. Only now they’ll both _know_.

Fuck. He’s already imagining things. How he'll have to fight against all those memories from last night. And this morning. He’ll have to fight against them with every bit of strength he has. All day.

And he’ll have to fight against those moments _anytime_ he hears the scratches of that quill backstage. He’ll have to resist the urge to clamber up into the writer’s nook, and distract him.

Not to mention, there are _so_ many little crannies in The Whitespire they can sneak away to….

Physically shaking himself out of it, he pries himself away from the door frame. It’s time to put himself back together. Today’s going to be one giant exercise of willpower. They have to keep their hands off each other today. They _must._ Whatever this is, between him and Q, he can’t sabotage their lives for it. It’s too new. Too terrifying. Too wonderful. He can’t risk everything, just because every bone in his body is screaming he needs Quentin Coldwater back in his bed immediately.

As it turns out, Eliot’s got every reason to shore-up his self-control. Hours later, he’s running through another Act Two, Scene Two, moment. Bingle’s opened up all the doors in the theater, letting in a lovely breeze off the river. Tick’s brought in some tiles, and the mosaic dais, for them to work with, fresh from the carpenters. It gives them a bit of stage business. Props to play around with. He and Mike are standing in front of these little towers of tiles they’ve stacked, sorted by color.

They’re trying it without scripts, while Margo eyes them from a bench House Left. Victoria has placed herself at the Upstage Center arch, ready to direct the stage fight to come.

Then Quentin enters behind her. They haven’t laid eyes on each other this whole time - work and rehearsal keeping them apart. Eliot’s heart leaps when he sees him in his periphery.

He’s changed clothes since this morning. His hair’s long dried out, and his jaw’s freshly shaved. That tight, maroon doublet is bringing out the gold in his molasses irises.

“It’s your line,” Mike says.

Eliot wrenches his eyes back. He’s missed his cue. “Sorry. Can we go back?”

“For fuck’s sake!” roars Margo. “Focus! We’ve got shit to do, people!”

They reset the stacks one more time, then rise. Eliot drags his lines back into his brain, and kicks a column of tiles again. They slide into a dominoed trail across the mosaic.

“Do you kick your tiles at me, sir?” Mike scoffs, turning to face him. He’s set his face into a barely contained, furious scowl.

Damn. Eliot’s skin is prickling. He’s losing focus already. Q’s watching his every move; he can feel it. “I do kick my tiles, sir.”

“Do you kick your tiles _at me_ , sir?” Mike takes a step closer.

Eliot knows it’s all a part of the scene; he _knows_. This is when Brian and Nigel really, properly, clash together. They’ve already spent years stuck in this life of monotony. Thousands of daily patterns exhausted, and still no answer. Of course they’re bound to take it out on each other.

And, come on, Mike’s _definitely_ not scolding him because he can tell Eliot’s _reliving the feeling of Quentin’s tongue on his_. Get serious....

He takes a step towards Mike too, trying to get back into Brian’s thoughts. If he happens to channel some of his pent-up frustration – that he can’t turn around, waltz over, and rip Q’s clothes off him right now – who does it hurt, really?

“No, sir, I do not kick my tiles at _you_ , sir, but I do kick my tiles, sir.”

“Do you quarrel, sir?”

Eliot puts his hand on his hips. Like it’s totally not an excuse to get Quentin to stare at his ass. “Quarrel, sir? No, sir.”

“But if you do, sir, I am for you,” Mike sneers, “I serve as good a throne as you.”

“No better,” Eliot retorts. He crosses the mosaic to stand inches away from him.

“Yes,” Mike growls, “better. Sir.”

Eliot bellows, “You lie!” and starts the fight. Victoria went over it with them a dozen times already. There are about nine moments they have to remember. A grab, a shove, and a careful, very convincing knee to the stomach that knocks him to the floor. From there, it’s mostly just a few wrestling rolls and two punches each, until they ram into the remaining tiles at the same time, and break apart.

They take it slow, only at half-speed. Manhandling Mike isn’t the worst part of his job. If Eliot’s heart didn’t already belong to someone else, he might’ve been swayed once. Mike's been cordial and patient so far, never one to shy away from offering some advice, or a smile. He’s an absolute genius at memorizing his lines. Almost to the point where Eliot _might_ feel intimidated, if he let it get to his head. And if the other actor gets in a few brawls after work – judging by those bruises on his knuckles – who’s Eliot to judge? Mike was actually the one who came up with the idea that they should burst into laughter, after the fight’s finished. He said it was a way to show the audience that Brian and Nigel are still comrades, still in this together. That they’ll probably be even closer, after they’ve gotten this fight out of the way.

They hit the last roll. Eliot feels the tiles press against his arm. He lets out an exaggerated grunt, and Mike takes his cue to topple off. They breathe, do the laugh, and stand back up.

“How was that?” Mike calls to Victoria.

“Yeah, you guys got everything,” she says. She leans away from the archway, crossing her arms. “How’d it feel?”

Eliot checks in with Mike. They both nod. Each segment played out smoothly and safely. Even Margo gives a generous nod.

“Actually,” Quentin says, sending a jolt down Eliot’s spine. “Something’s not quite right.”

Eliot shivers. He turns to see him crossing the stage, and swallows, begging his lungs to behave. Q’s only got eyes for him, and Eliot’s can’t keep the heat out of his gaze either. Now that he’s stepped forward, glowing in the sunlight, Eliot realizes his gorgeous playwright’s put his hair up in a bun, to keep his fringe out of his eyes. A few locks have slipped free, begging to be tucked back behind his ears.

“It’s more of a… well, so, um, the intention _there_ is…” Q draws a finger across his lower lip, back and forth, frowning. There’s a glint in his eye that Eliot wants to kiss right off his face. He says, “Mike, mind if I step in? I’m gonna do an exercise with Benedick real quick. Show him what I’m looking for.”

“Yeah, sure,” Mike shrugs.

Eliot’s heart is trumpeting. Q’s a goddamn genius.

The two of them rearrange the tiles one last time. If they _just so happen_ to reach for the same squares more than a few times, it’s _definitely_ just a quirk of fate that their hands brush again and again.

Eliot gets back into position, his nerves on fire. He’s enveloped by anticipation and curiosity. Because, uh, hello? Acting on stage with _Quentin_? Holy fuck. He never thought this would happen. He’s dying to know how he works. How he _plays_.

Eliot shifts, getting Brian’s posture back in his limbs. He flicks the tiles with the ball of his foot, and they topple.

Quentin tilts his head to the side. “Do you…” He trails off, shaking his head in disbelief. “Do you… kick your tiles at me, sir?” His voice is almost like honey. Dripping off of his tongue. The polar opposite of Mike’s tempered anger. He’s staring at him through lowered eyelashes.

_Shit_.

Eliot can’t tell if that thought is Brian’s, or his own. Another lock of Quentin’s hair has slipped out, brushing his cheek.

“I do kick my tiles, sir,” Eliot says. And, on impulse, he’s the one stepping forward this time, instead of Nigel.

Quentin barely reacts. He narrows his eyes, and just crosses his arms. Like they’re disagreeing over what to have for dinner, and not the fate of all goddamn magic. Like Brian’s response was almost a joke. “ _Do_ you kick your tiles at me, sir?”

“No, sir,” Eliot growls. He needs to get a bigger reaction. This whole moment needs to crack wide open, to explode. “I do not kick my tiles at you, sir.” He’s going poke and prod Q. _Make_ him go bigger. Brian wants to prove to Nigel he’s not as controlled and collected as he thinks he is. Eliot wants to tantalize Quentin with everything in his arsenal. To get his hands on him, as soon as fucking possible. “But I do kick my tiles, sir.” And he strides all the way over to him, getting right up in his face.

And Quentin’s just grinning. “Do you quarrel, sir?”

Eliot smirks back. “Quarrel, sir? No, sir.” He bites his lip and lets it go, feeling his lips flush with color from the pressure, drawing Quentin’s eye.

Q drops his arms. Eliot feels a small moment of triumph… only for Q to snuff it out, when he turns his back on him entirely. “But if you do, sir, I am for you,” he says with a sigh. “I serve as good a throne as you.”

Is that… is that wistfulness he’s going for?! Or boredom?! As though he’d give _anything_ to be entertained. Like Brian is only a passing _amusement_ to Nigel.

Right, they’ve reached that point. Cheap shots aren’t out of the question anymore. He moves even closer. They’re almost touching from head to toe. That little bun behind his head tickles against Eliot’s Adam’s apple. He bends his head over his shoulder, lining his mouth right up to his ear. “No better.”

“Yes.” Q turns his face a few inches. It brushes their cheeks together. “Better. Sir.”

That does it. Resistance is useless. He snares Q by the shoulders, turning him around and grabbing him by the lapels of his stupidly sexy doublet. He can’t get away with smashing their lips together. But… so long as they’re cheating out towards the audience….

He drags them both down. They fall to their knees. From the outside, it’s close enough to look like they’re about to fight any second. In reality, Q’s clinging to him, exhilarated, like he doesn’t know whether to giggle or gasp. But just like this morning, after weighing his options, Quentin acts. Now he’s the one pushing Eliot, and they fall backwards to the ground.

Once the false shoves and grunts start, time races and crawls all at once. It dawns on him, just how different this moment is. Their choreography is all new, simplified. Not only for safety, but because they just _don’t_ want to hurt each other. It’s not a show of strength versus strength, king versus king. They wrestle across the stage, yes, but it’s in the style of close friends, of shared affection and wry vexation with each other. If someone lands a soft, clever blow, the other ends up chuckling, like it’s a compliment, rather than any fury at being outsmarted.

Quentin’s started outright laughing. It’s an echoing peal of music, that sound. He even sneaks in a grope or two, and Eliot can’t help but retaliate by slipping a hand beneath his shirt, getting a firm grip on his smooth, wonderful skin. He hears the breath catch in Q’s throat. They are seconds from getting their mouths on each other. Any scenario where they _don’t_ end up kissing will be a victory at this point, as much as his heart cries out against it.

With one, final, delightful tumble, he gets them in the middle of the mosaic, and stills. Quentin’s laughter dies down, and they’re left staring at each other. Eliot can’t tell where one of them ends, and the other begins. The crisp scent of sawdust brushes against his nose, until it’s overcome by the sharp tang of Quentin’s sweat. His heavy breathing makes his chest rise and fall beneath him, giving him these tiny, wonderful brushes of contact. Q cranes his neck up, burying himself in the hollow of Eliot’s neck. His need, his hunger. It’s building up inside his heart. He has to do something, anything, to relieve it. He presses his lips into Quentin’s hair, breathing him in.

“Weeell,” says Margo. She’s much closer than she was earlier. She must’ve left the balcony, and climbed up onto the stage itself. “Glad you were around to show the plebs how it’s done, Coldwater. Since you’re so good at this, maybe I’ll just go finish your play for you, huh? How’s that sound?”

Eliot pries himself off of him and rolls to his side. Q scrambles to his feet, brushing that fantastic doublet off. “See what I mean, Benedick?” he says.

“Yeah.” Eliot doesn’t move, sprawled across the mosaic like a nymph in a meadow. “I see what you mean.”

Q offers Margo a quick salute, before ducking back through the upstage curtains. Once Q’s out of sight, her boots clack as she walks over to kneel at Eliot’s side. “You tryna sabotage this before it even gets off the ground?” she says to him, keeping her voice low, almost at a whisper.

His head jerks to the side, seeing her cold, hard stare. Margo gives him shit all the time, knowing now, after the dozens of hours they’ve spent sharing scenes, that he can take it, and lob it right back. But, he quickly realizes, this isn’t one of those times.

“No. God, no.” He props himself off of the mosaic with his elbows, and meets her eyes. “If you want to do the fight the other way, we’ll go back to that.”

She takes in the sight of him, narrowing her eyes as he noticeably doesn’t flinch away. “No,” she says, after a moment.

“No?”

She glances back at the curtains after Q. “He wasn’t wrong. I can see what he’s trying to go for.”

“And what’s that?” Eliot makes his voice lofty and light, like his heart’s not still racing. Like he’s just some fellow actor, just doing his job, and who knows what that crazy playwright's thinking anyway, right?

Her mouth twists into an expression he can’t quite place. “Spend some more time with him, and you’ll figure it out.” She stands, tucking the pages under her arm and tugging her cuffs to straighten her deep indigo sleeves. “That being said, if you ruin this? I ruin you.”

“What, is there a piece of blocking I keep forgetting? Do I keep saying a line wrong?”

“Don’t play dumb. You know what I mean.”

He brushes the sawdust off of his chest, and digs out one of the tiles from beneath his ass. “It’s a Coldwater play. I’d never dream of ruining one.” He tosses the tile away.

She bends at the waist and, surprisingly, offers him a hand up. He can feel the calluses along her palm as she pulls him to his feet. “I’ll bounce back if the play goes to shit. I always do. You probably will to.” But she isn’t letting him go. In fact, she’s got his hand in a death grip. “Quentin’s had to crawl his way here. Despite parts of him constantly holding him back. This is all he has. And yeah, this could be his best one yet. Dunno if you’ve noticed, motherfucker, but he draws people to him. Just with the things he writes about. Just by being how he is. Some people are gonna take advantage, once it gets popular. If they haven’t started already. If you decide he’s worth the trouble? You can’t become one of the things that’ll hold him back. He can’t take any more heavy shit.”

Recklessly, and true to his own selfish, monstrous character, the first thing he thinks of to say is: _I won’t hold him back. I’ll help. He’s got me, now_. Which makes no sense. And can’t be true, not really. Not with how little time he’s actually spent with him. But it feels so true. No matter how much his pessimism and rationality try to shatter that feeling, it’s absolute. Unbreakable.

_He’s got me, now_.

The words are the final cog that sets the machine running. They’re the ethereal note in the music that makes it resonate and move the listener to tears. They’re the perfect line in the script that one remembers on their deathbed.

He will fight against Quentin’s darkness with his bare hands. He will cherish all of his smiles, as Q enjoys his. He’ll listen to him, and cheer him up when he can, and suggest ideas if he needs them, and be whatever he needs.

He wants to dash from the stage and say all this right to Quentin’s face. Or, maybe he’ll kiss him first, and then say them? Or maybe–

_Maybe_ he needs to get back to rehearsing the scene. Because if he does any of that, things _will_ go to shit.

“I won’t,” he promises. He looks down, squeezing Margo’s hand. She decided to be real with him; he returns the favor.

She must see he means it. She squeezes one last time, and lets him go. “Mike! You see how he wants it done?”

The other actor saunters back over, and Eliot scrubs a hand over his face. He takes all that fire and determination and _something that’s way too soon to name_ , and channels it back. Gives it a new outlet. Mike adapts on the fly, switching up his intentions. They work with Victoria to plot out the new beat, and it’s not as charged as it’d been with Q, but it helps the rest of the scene flow much better. When the moment ends, they duck backstage through the right and left arches.

The next moment is supposed to be five years later. They’re supposed to enter through the Upstage Center arch right after. It’s the simplest way to show time is passing for the two kings. Eliot’s pretty sure he’ll make it through the rest of the scenes okay. By now, he’s got his head on straight again.

Until Quentin tugs him into a side room used for quick-changes, and practically _attacks_ him with his mouth. All of Eliot’s self-discipline shatters. They fall back into each other so quickly. They almost become one breath, one heartbeat. Q slots his thigh between Eliot’s legs, and he’s already half-hard as he pushes back, rolling them along the wall. Q is pinned in place. He licks into his mouth, tasting a splash of ale and the juice of an apple on his bottom lip.

“El, El, I want to suck you,” Quentin gasps.

“Yes, baby, god–” Eliot starts unbuttoning his trousers for him.

Q dives to his knees, batting his hands away. He pushes the hose aside with a few fingers, freeing him, and wraps his tongue around Eliot’s cock, hollowing his cheeks as he fits as much of it as he can into his hot, gorgeous mouth, and starts bobbing his head like he needs it more than air. Eliot hisses, and–

“Mr. Coldwater?” Sunderland calls out from a few doors down.

They both freeze, Q’s lips still wrapped around him. He swallows, his tongue pressing his dick to the roof of his mouth. Eliot makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat.

“There’s a section of Janet’s monologue that got smudged. Can you tell me what this says?” she calls out again. She must be making copies. She’ll send someone looking for him if he doesn’t go.

“Q, you have to–”

But he’s moving again. He’s taking Eliot’s hand and bringing it to the back of his head. Eliot gasps and tightens his fingers. After some _divine,_ heavenly sucks, he forces himself to pull him back. Quentin tries to resist, so Eliot forces his head up. Absolutely loathing himself, he whispers, “You have to.”

“No.” Quentin blinks, the epitome of mischief. He kisses the soft skin of Eliot’s wrist. “I don’t.”

“We have to be careful.”

“Exactly.” He tugs the garter all the way down

Eliot makes a pained, barely audible laugh, but uses his other hand to pry them farther apart. “How about I make it up to you?”

Dragging a hand up and down his bare thigh, Q nods. Intrigued, but not taking his eyes off him.

“Margo and Josh won’t leave you alone until you finish the play, right?” Before Q can frown or fudge an answer, Eliot puts a finger over his mouth. Which was a stupid idea. All Quentin does is take it into his mouth, and sucks on it instead. Fuck, why is he so _perfect_? Eliot’s not a saint. He can’t deny him _too much_. He slides the finger in and out, Q’s eyes start to flutter shut. “Write more now, and you come back with me. Tonight. I’ll help you with… more writing.”

Quentin’s eyes pop back open, and his jaw loosens. Eliot dips in another finger. He’s so eager for it. Begging for it.

“Mr. Coldwater? There’s another smudge here. Is this ‘fabulous’ or ‘seditious?’”

Eliot withdraws his fingers completely. “Sound good?”

Q doesn’t answer. He gets closer, and Eliot worries he hasn’t been convincing enough, and he almost doesn’t care at this point. He’s only human. But Quentin presses a long kiss to his hip, before standing and ducking back out into the hallway. He leaves Eliot to tuck himself back in, the delightful bastard.

The rest of the day is barely any better. Every time Eliot so much as steps off stage, they find some way to caress or tease each other. Doesn’t matter where they are, or who they’re talking with. It’s never as blatant as that first thwarted blowjob; but still, Eliot knows they’re pushing their luck every time.

He’s trying to memorize the pantomime dance, he _is_. They’re making actual progress today. But memorizing each little moment Q has to bite his lip to keep himself in check, as Eliot ghosts a touch across his ass, is much more interesting. They grab lunch with the rest of the cast, and barely keep their hands off each other under the table. As the afternoon drags on, Eliot is hanging by the last shred of his control. The only thing that stops him from begging to run that tile scene again is the despicable fact that Quentin has to run out to buy himself more quills and ink.

The sun sets just as Josh decides they’ll finish the rest of Act Two tomorrow. The distance between Eliot’s house and The Whitespire might as well be across the Channel, with how long it takes them to get back.

Oh, and that cruel moment they have to separate, so Q can go climb his balcony, while Eliot checks in with the staff? Dante himself couldn’t’ve invented a harsher hell.

Eliot makes it back to his bedroom first. He doesn’t even let Quentin get through the doorway.

Without so much as a “hello, sweetheart,” he takes Quentin by the hips, pushes him against the balcony, and sinks to his knees.

“Eliot,” Quentin moans.

He’s already hard; Eliot’s mouth waters at the shape of him through his underclothes. He takes him between his lips right there. He fits his hand right above Quentin’s thundering heart, pinning him in place. Exposed to the open sky, Eliot plays Quentin like a lyre. The most glorious notes keen out of his slack-jawed mouth as Eliot sucks, curls his tongue, coats him with spit. His cock glides in and out, smooth, slick, velveteen, and in no time at all, he’s taking him to the root, like a chorus after every stanza. He flushes with pride when he feels Quentin’s hips stutter, and the playwright’s already spending himself down Eliot’s throat after a warning that he gladly ignores.

It’s as if they never left the room. Quentin’s just as insatiable as he was then. Even with his shaking legs, he drives Eliot back to the bed, freshly made this morning, and takes Eliot apart the same way he had the first time. They get lost in a world all their own. Filled with warmth and soft light and adoration, and smiles that sear themselves onto their hearts. They collapse only when their bodies can’t keep up with their need for each other, Quentin yawning as he splays across Eliot’s chest like a blanket.

Later that night, Eliot wakes to an empty bed. Before he gets too concerned, one quick turn of his head doesn’t just allay his fears. It earns him another gift he never expected.

He sees Quentin, sitting at Eliot’s desk, clothed only in the light of the banked fire, and the dim flame of a few candles. He is writing after all, tapping a near silent rhythm against the parchment, making each syllable fit before he dips his quill and puts the words on the page. The honor of seeing him like this washes through Eliot, sinking into his bones, down to his marrow. He’s entranced by the curve of his shoulders. That expanse of flushed skin he’s traced with the pads of his fingers. Gripped in the throws of ecstasy. The little twitches in his upper arms, every time he moves to start a new line.

It’s just like this morning, imagining that shared bath. Only, so much stronger. Knowing that the words are right there, on the edge of awareness, storming and burning and whispering and entrancing, ready to be plucked out of the ether in an instant. Each one a tool, forged to connect an audience to the story, and to each other. Right there, all at Quentin’s fingertips.

He realizes could spend endless time like this, just watching. He is utterly content with this _privilege_ of… of being a witness.

He’d be content for… more than just a month. He imagines a year of unexpected moments like this. And then two. Three. Five. A decade. Half a century.

And he wants it. Wants it all.

And even, heresy of heresies: he wishes he’ll one day become a man who deserved it.

Silently, he crosses over to the desk, and drapes his arms around his shoulders. Quentin doesn’t even flinch. Finishing a line, he pecks a kiss against Eliot’s check, so casually, like he’s done it a thousand times. Wonder strikes Eliot like lightning, that it happens so naturally, so readily. He’s suddenly the one trying to grasp the right words, the right phrases to say. Or whether he should say anything at all.

“Does this sound right to you? ‘No man gets that kind of proof of concept,’” Q says quietly.

Eliot sees a ‘B’ scrawled near the sentence. It’s Brian’s, then. He tries to keep his heart from running wild. _Quentin_ fucking _Coldwater_ is asking his advice. But then again…this’s _Q_ . Self-importance doesn’t hold a candle to helping _Q_ with his work.

He scans the lines above, trying to get the context. There’s not a lot to go off of. Lots of single phrases, like the tile moment today, but much heavier. There’s a subtext in them that he can’t quite grasp. “It’s got the pentameter,” Eliot confirms while he reads. “But it doesn’t quite, uh, flow off the tongue.”

“How should it flow?”

“Trippingly, I guess?”

The quill taps impatiently against the lip of the inkpot. “Like, you’re getting tripped up by it? Or, like, gracefully? Like you’re not even trying?”

Again, it’s hard to know what he’s looking for. Trying to lighten the mood, knowing the lines are for him, he preens, “Well _that_ depends on the actor you give it to.”

Q snorts, but then he leans back. He rubs a hand through his hair, sighing. “Mmm. This part’s going to be hell. I can feel it.”

Does that mean Eliot should leave him to his work? Is he being a bother?

Right. Um. Eliot can occupy himself, until Quentin tweaks out all the bits and pieces, and comes back to bed. He can build the fire back up. Call Todd for a small tray to snack from.

Or. Or he can… be brave. It’s. It’s like a muscle, right? Getting stronger the more he practices.

“Want to me to run it with you? See how it all sounds?” he says.

Quentin’s hair brushes Eliot’s cheek as he looks at him. The sweetest little half smile curves up on his mouth. “You really want to?”

If Quentin has any doubts about why Eliot invited him back here again, he needs to put them to rest. The words want to get stuck in his throat, but he pushes them out. This’s never been just physical between them. It’s always been something more. “I told you, the first day we met,” he whispers. “You’re my favorite. Of course I want to.” He returns the little kiss from before with one of his own. He forces himself to keep it short and sweet. Otherwise, he’s just going to wind up pulling him back into bed all over again. “Make me a copy. I’ll get us some tea.”

They start devising the scene not long after, trading lines back and forth. Whenever Q thinks of something, or wants makes a correction, they pause so he can bolt over to the desk to scribble it down. A heady atmosphere fills the room. There’s no audience except the two of them. They’re free to improvise like never before. They tease, challenge, and encourage each other. To try the lines one way, and then another. They fill in vague spots, considering how this part, or that part, ties in to the scenes that came before. How something _here_ might affect the scenes that come after _there_. Q even runs the previous scenes with him right then and there, showing off just how much of his own work he’s memorized. And the mosaic moments happen like they were meant to.

Before long, it’s after midnight, and they crawl into bed and into each other again. The new day that follows, and all the other ones after, are as close to Heaven as Eliot thinks he’ll ever get.

Rehearsals become these fantastic, grueling, emotionally-charged… _lifetimes_ , compacted into mere hours. True, he’s still learning. As sharp as he is, he does have to memorize his lines just like everyone else. He still underreacts or overreacts. There’s a balance he has to keep, figuring out how to make his dialogue as realistic as possible. Devastatingly, he also learns most of the costumes won’t appear until right before Opening Day.

And the scenes start _hitting_ him. Hard. Q’s always _there_. Acting with him every night changes how Eliot looks at every beat. He hears his voice in every one of Brian’s lines, every time he challenges Nigel, every time the characters grow closer during Act Two. And he carries that into his work. After decades of keeping his emotions in check, he just can’t help but… _feel_ , so much. And instead of that being a weakness, his fellow actors encourage it, welcome it.

Knowing he and Q can’t be too close in the light of day, he asks Mike if they can incorporate more physical gestures into the pantomime. They circle each other, never breaking eye contact, holding hands longer, even adding a few lifts. They lean against each other, embrace, exchange tiles without looking, and Eliot imagines, every second, that it’s Quentin across from him. The dance grows more complicated, but it feels like it’s the easiest thing in the world, every time they run it. The rest of the company notice the difference. They get mesmerized by the moments, even though they’re familiar with them. Act Two, Scene Two, starts drawing its own audience. Even that woman, Marina, doesn’t look away.

Margo, unexpectedly, starts changing her tune. Instead of just screeching at him for doing something wrong, she starts asking him questions. Why’s Brian doing that? Why emphasize this word now and that word later? She demands to know what Brian wants at any given moment. If he gives a half-assed answer, she doesn’t relent until he gives a satisfying one.

But once he gets there, she bestows him with a rare, soft smile when no one else is looking.

She even lets him join her in the audience, on the rare occasions when they’re both not supposed to be onstage. Half of their conversations become nothing but bouts of bickering and exchanging insults. They show off their outfits to each other, and even gossip about the others, now that Eliot’s spent more time with them. He learns devious things about the Admiral’s Men that he never would have expected. Like which one swore they had the pox for a month, and started planning their funeral, only to realize the marks were just from being poked by feathers from their pillow every night. He learns which one has been bailed out from debtors’ prison. And which one still believes sea monsters are real.

It’s almost like she’s… trusting him? Or – dare he think it – befriending him? He wonders if it’s because he’s never once fawned over her. Or if she appreciates, any time they argue, that it’s never inherently malicious, no matter how vicious or cutting it sounds. It’s almost harder, whenever they run Act One, to make Brian switch back to completely distrusting Janet at first, now that he’s getting to know Margo better every day.

And if she catches him staring at Quentin for too long, she just nods, like she accepts it, before jerking her head, reminding him he needs to focus.

Eliot… could get used to this. As insane as that sounds. As much as he is convinced he doesn’t deserve one _iota_ of this wondrous week. He _could_ get used to it. And he… does?

Every night, Quentin returns home with him. Every night, the time they spend together is new, and different, yet it feels like they’ve been with each other forever. Sometimes, Q writes, and they rehearse anything and everything they want to. One night, they talk softly, Eliot’s head pillowed by Quentin’s soft stomach, of Quentin’s late father. How he’d never discouraged Q’s love of words and heroes and magic. Another night, they only stop fucking when Quentin begs Eliot to teach him how to milk that sweet spot inside him, and Eliot actually passes out from coming too many times. Their lovemaking becomes this tender, wild, slow, fast, hot, joyous, sometimes hilarious, sometimes awkward, endless, over-too-soon… _wonder_ of the world. He can’t describe it properly. He doesn’t have the words.

And then. Scenes Three and Four are finally complete. Margo delivers the full copies from Sunderland Saturday afternoon. And Eliot’s hit the hardest he’s ever been. The company gathers around to read the scenes together aloud, and they discover just how Nigel dies.

There’s no monologue or drawn out action. An ancient, elderly Brian simply turns around one day, to discover that his friend, his fellow king, his true partner in this quest, has left this world behind.

No eulogy follows. No “Friends, animals, Fillorians, lend me your ears.” He just wraps Nigel in a blanket, sets out to bury him, and the puzzle yields up the key.

Only for Jane Chatwin to appear, and ask him for it, claiming she needs it for her own purposes.

And Brian just… gives it to her?

As the company reads the scene, no one, not even Margo, rejoices at Jane’s return. Maybe she knew this was going to happen. She’s been pulling Quentin aside to talk with him often enough. But still, this moment should be a triumph; they all want it to be. Yet it feels sour, hollow. Many of them, Eliot included, dart their eyes up to glance at Quentin, confused about what exactly he’s playing at. He trusts that Quentin’s doing this for a reason, but… he’s just standing there, propped up against one of the stage’s pillars, biting his nails, not looking too happy with himself.

His hand falls from his mouth as he takes in Eliot’s expression. He walks over, puts a hand on his shoulder, and acts as if he’s pointing something out on the page to him. Though his finger moves back and forth along a blank space, in his ear, Quentin breathes, “Proof of concept.” 

Oh. The moment he and Eliot had devised together. He remembers Q mentioning it the other night: it’ll happen in Act Three. It’s not a huge reassurance, but something inside his chest settles back down.

“Don’t worry!” Q says to them all. “Keep reading!”

In Scene Four, the action jumps backwards in time. Or forwards, technically. Janet receives a letter from Brian, advising her that he and Nigel died in the past during the quest. He tells her where she can find the key. She retrieves it from Jane Chatwin’s tomb, and manages to stop the still-young Nigel and Brian from ever having to go on the mosaic quest in the first place.

Mike breathes a sigh of relief. Ess and Idri pat him on the back. Which, Eliot supposes, is probably how he should be feeling too. There’s nothing like being told your character dies before the plays not even halfway done. And then, suddenly, they’re not dead after all.

“So do they remember?” Margo asks.

It echoes what Eliot’s been wondering. Word for word.

Quentin straightens up. “What?”

“You heard me,” she snaps, her face unreadable. “Do they remember that whole life they lived together?”

“Why does it matter?” Harriet signs. “They earned the key. They just need to know where the lock is, and then they get magic back. That’s the happy ending.”

Quentin tugs on a strand of hair. He forgot to put it up today, and Eliot’s fingers itch to help him get it out of his eyes. He’s rocking back and forth along his heels too. “Yeah, so, the lock. Kimber gets that from her, uh, from the quest book. The lock’s underneath Fillory. Like, literally under–”

“Oh, _that’s_ where the pirate king is!” Josh says with a snap of his fingers. “And then the dog’s gonna be there, like The Beast, and they’ll–”

“Hoberman, did I _give_ you permission to speak?” Marina’s bored voice drawls from the edge of the stage. “If you think that’s where this play’s going by now, Pete’s been knockin’ you upside the head too many times.”

Huh. Eliot hadn’t even thought she was listening. Besides making sure her investment in this play pays off, he wouldn't have expected her to be paying so much attention to the plot.

Margo stomps her heel on the stage. “Hello! What about all the things they learned? All that wisdom and shit? The _lifelong_ partnership? All that’s just gonna go away? They’re not gonna stay friends after they get magic back? How’s that good for Fillory?”

“The audience will know what happened,” Fogg says. “They’re the true witnesses.”

Skye pipes up. “So, the audience’ll walk away feeling, um… wistful? They’ll wind up thinking ‘aw, if only they could remember?’”

“It adds a bitter sweetness to the ending,” muses Idri. “Makes it real.”

“And how ‘bout all that shit Benedick and Mike have been doing?” Margo says. “What’s the fuckin’ _point_ of saying none of it really happened? Might as well just give them the key from the beginning! Might as well not’ve written anything at all!”

Eliot rises, putting his hand on Q’s shoulder, returning the gesture. He looks out at everyone. “How about we trust our author, yeah? He doesn’t have to explain everything ‘til he’s ready.”

His ears are ringing. He can command the attention of nobles, but he’s never addressed the company like this. Like the principal, leading the ensemble. Like Margo does. He sees her staring him down, and as much as he wants to lighten the mood, placate the crowd, he knows he can’t back down from this.

There must be something in the way he said it. Something in his eyes, or in the set of his jaw. Margo tsks, but doesn’t tear him a new one. The rest of the cast look like they agree with him too. He even gets a few nods. 

A small tug draws Eliot’s eyes down. Quentin has pinched his sleeve, right on the cuff, right above his palm. If they were allowed to take each other’s hands, right then and there, he knows he’d do it.

“Thank you,” he says softly. Then, louder, to the rest of the cast: “They won’t forget. It’s complicated, but they won’t.”

His eyes aren’t as clear and determined as his voice is. There’s a strain in his shoulders.

Eliot’s stomach sinks. He can’t seem to shake the dread he’s feeling, even while they run Act One and Two, and during the break they take for lunch. Q doesn’t say much to him either, although he strokes the back of his hand under the table.

After they get back, Q returns to his nook to keep working. The rest of the theater falls silent, everyone going about their separate line-throughs, or gathering props. Since he’s never done stock-character work before, Micah gives Eliot a few pointers. In order to be a convincing old man, he turns his walk into a shuffle. Adds a hunch to his shoulders. Makes his hand tremble, when he reaches out to grab something. They start blocking Scene Three soon after.

Eliot, somehow, has to put himself in the shoes of someone who’s lived… longer than he ever thought he would. Someone who’s spent a lifetime with one person. One person who hasn’t abandoned him, or gotten sick of him. Who’s seen past the façade he always has in place, and likes him – hell, _loves_ him – all the same. Only in the deepest, most desperate caverns of Eliot’s heart… has he ever hoped for something like that. And now? Now he has to pretend that he’s already had it. For decades.

How would that look? How would that feel?

He has no idea.

Except…

Quentin’s face, mid-dream, scrunched up in the early morning light, swims into his head. And then Eliot thinks of that lilt in his voice. When he’s written the wrong word, and he’s complaining every word Eliot suggests is the wrong one too. And then there’s that soft, humoring laugh of his, like that one time, the one where Eliot insisted Thomas Moore was wrong, and proceeded to describe what a real Utopia should look like. And his voice, in the boat, echoing Eliot’s own thoughts right back at him.

_Love doesn’t insist you fix yourself, just to earn its company._

All of that.

Every day.

For _decades_.

He turns around, ready.

Mike’s slumped down in a chair by the mosaic. He’s not moving. His eyes are blank. Empty.

His first line. Right. His… his first line. It’s… it’s….

“Nigel?” he asks. Desperate for an answer. Even though he, and Brian, both know there won’t be one.

How do you cope with losing a lifetime of love, seconds after you've let yourself believe you can have it?

The answer, Eliot learns, is you don’t.

Even though he has his script right there, right in his hands, he barely manages to say his lines. He can feel everyone’s eyes on him. Mike tries to make the process of Eliot wrapping him in the blanket easier. He doesn’t let his body become dead weight, moving mostly on his own, instead of making Eliot move him.

Eliot doesn’t have it in him to be appreciative. It’s still all too real, the harsh, jarring loneliness.

The panel in the mosaic dais slides away, before long. Mike has subtly pressed a release button on the side, revealing the key. Eliot’s almost numb to the sight of it as he picks it up.

Margo enters from one of the staircases, and she’s a stranger. If this were any other day, any other play, he’d marvel at seeing Jane Chatwin up close. He’d feel such awe, at the privilege of sharing a scene with her.

Margo’s changed everything about her stance, her tone. Unlike Janet’s razor-sharp charm, Jane has an earnestness, a desperation. Of course Brian helps her. How can he not?

He reads his lines almost by rote. When Jane leaves with the key, the stage is empty all over again. Eliot’s left with nothing but the shape of Mike, and every single, now useless, tile.

The scene ends. He flees. He heads for the back door, his vision tunneling, blurring.

Q must’ve seen him on his way out. He follows behind soon after, discovering Eliot hunched over outside, leaning against the wall, with both hands pressed to the plaster.

“El?”

Fuck being in public. Eliot whips around, wraps his arms around Quentin, and buries his face in his neck. Quentin hugs him back. They’ve got a little time before Eliot has to go back inside and work on Scene Four, and they take advantage of every second. They can tell something’s shifted between them. They’re not sure whether it’s good, or bad. It just hurts.

Q begs off a little early, having satisfied Josh with two finished scenes at once today. They share a quiet meal of stew and a few mugs of beer tonight, just the two of them. When they make it back to Eliot’s room, they take each other apart so, so slowly, staying right on the edge, pushing back their release as much as they can, before they can’t resist each other anymore. Their bodies writhe. They whisper their names over and over, like it’s the only thing they know how to say. They kiss, like it’s the only salve for a wound they can’t see. As close as they are, it’s still not enough. Any separation is too much. They trail featherlight touches over every inch of skin. There’s not enough time. There’s never enough time.

They come within moments of each other, breathing hard, and they fall asleep with every limb entwined, still aching, unable to tell each other how to soothe it.

Dawn breaks, and still they sleep. The rooster hollers, and no one stirs. When Eliot does wake, sunlight fills every corner of the room. And Quentin’s not in his arms.

He checks the desk, but he’s not there either. Yesterday’s nameless sorrow gouges out fresh heartache in his chest. He sits up, wondering what he might’ve done, what he might’ve said. Whether the darkness had found them both in the night, and just decided to take Quentin first.

He sees a pair of bare feet, peeking out beyond the doorway of his balcony. Plucking a robe out of his wardrobe, Eliot goes outside, to discover Quentin sitting on the stone floor, still naked, his head tilted to the sky. He doesn’t speak, and neither does Eliot, for some time. There’s no wind today, and no clouds drift across the sky.

When the distance between them gets to be too much, Eliot sits down beside him, taking his hand to lace their fingers together. Quentin’s head falls to rest on Eliot’s shoulder.

“I think it’s obvious I’m not writing a comedy anymore,” Quentin says quietly.

Eliot squeezes his hand. “But the ending hasn’t been written yet.”

He feels Q move his head up and down in an awkward nod. “I really want it to end well, for Brian and Nigel.” He lifts his head, and he looks at Eliot, desperate for an answer Eliot’s not sure he can give him.

“I do too,” Eliot reassures.

“My imagination. It…” Q growls in frustration, looking down at their hands. “It’s telling me there’s too much in the way. But we made that ‘proof of concept’ moment together. Where they remember. So in Act Three… Brian asks Nigel if they can unite their kingdoms. If they can be partners again, just like they were before.” And then Quentin swallows. His face crumples, and he looks at the walls of the balcony. “So, like, um, I’m thinking I need to, uh, to tell you something. Before–”

Eliot completely misses the rest of Quentin’s sentence. Church bells ring. One. Two. Three. Four. All the way to… eleven. Which is the time ministers will let out the congregation… on…

“Sunday,” Eliot breathes. He shakily gets to his feet.

“El?”

Like his soul’s been ripped out of his chest, he falls back against the windows. The glass is a cool shock against the silk covering his back.

“It’s Sunday,” he says again.

Quentin stands, goosebumps trailing along his arms despite the summer heat. He holds himself, his eyebrows creased with worry. Eliot wants to take him in his arms. Wants to tell him it’s nothing. That they can go back to the way things were. That it ends well for them.

But he can’t face him. He lurches back across the balcony, and plunges back into his room. The air feels even more stifling inside.

He should have known. Should have dropped out days ago. Should have told Margo. Should have tried harder to tell Quentin. Should have kept his heart locked away from the beginning. Should have pushed away this false dream, this undeserved happiness.

A cruel, cold voice, sounding so much like his father, thunders in his head.

_You thought you could escape? No. Never. Your fate’s the one thing you’ll never escape from_. _We know who you are. Who you were made to be._

They’ve been living in a stolen season. A lie. One they’ve been telling themselves over and over, their belief in it growing with each repetition.

Like the ultimate blows striking a blacksmith's anvil, a cacophony of footsteps clatters in the hallway, just outside the foyer leading to his bedroom.

“Not ready?! The sun rose hours ago!” Fen cries.

The foyer door thuds. Like Todd’s physically blocked it with his whole body. “If you’d just be a little patient, ma’am. He’s just… dressing.”

“Would you ask Her Majesty to be patient?!”

“Eliot?” Quentin says.

Eliot sinks down on the edge of his bed. He might as well be Nigel from yesterday, lifeless in his chair, abandoning the other person without warning, leaving him to soldier on alone while he goes to his death without any resistance or fanfare.

“Eliot!” Quentin kneels before him, taking his hands, desperate to do something, anything.

He turns to stare at his bedroom door. “The letter I wrote you,” he says. “I wasn’t… I wasn’t lying.”

“What?”

“I’m supposed to marry Fen, remember? We’re supposed to go to Greenwich today. To get the queen’s permission.”

Quentin’s hands fall away. He swallows. “So?”

“So?” An edge creeps into Eliot’s voice. “So that engagement hasn’t exactly been called off.”

“Is it going to be?”

The edge gets sharper. “You think that’s up to me? You think I have any say in who I marry?”

Quentin bites his cheek, then frowns at him. “I mean, you’re the one who says ‘I do’ in the church. It’s not like anyone else can do that part for you.”

“Semantics, Quentin,” Eliot jeers. He’s going to make himself sick. But he has to say this. Has to slam the doors to paradise closed right now. “An arranged marriage doesn’t work like that.”

“Then unarrange it!” Q hisses.

Eliot pushes off of his bed. He tears his robe off of his shoulders, heading straight for the wardrobe. It’s time to put on his armor. To draw his weapons. He’s brought this on himself. His weakness. His stupid, naïve wish: to love and be loved.

Except that’s not how the world works.

“Say I did,” he snarls, pulling out an emerald doublet, embroidered with thorned roses. “Say I refused to marry every woman my father negotiates with. Say he _doesn’t_ threaten to kill me each and every time I refuse. Say he merely disowns me and leaves me penniless. What then?”

Quentin pushes up off the ground, his eyes darting every direction. His clothes are strewn all over the floor. As he picks them up and starts putting them back on, he looks like he’s pacing. Like he’s coming up with a plan. Eliot feels the tiniest glimmer of hope that he is, and he forces himself to snuff it out.

When he’s halfway dressed, Q just stops in the middle of the floor. He meets Eliot’s gaze head on. “Then you stay with me.”

Eliot’s heart roars. He’s seconds from breaking, rushing back into Quentin’s arms.

“If you have to drag him out of there in his undergarments, so be it!”

Fen’s voice is like a slap to the face. Poor Todd, out on the front lines, taking the brunt of her assault like that.

“You stay with me,” Quentin repeats, twice as sure, and he holds out his hand. Achilles himself could never display such strength, such certainty. Defying every law, every custom, every whimsy of Destiny and every divine plan.

So Eliot must be the arrow, striking too true.

“And what’ll our lives be?” he asks quietly. He tugs on one piece of clothing after the other, refusing to meet Quentin’s shattered eyes. “I don’t have any trades to fall back on. I don’t have the skills or the materials to craft anything; I don’t have the connections to open up a stall or a shop. Sure, I can act. But what happens if the playhouses shut down again? What if your ideas run dry, or your mind drags you down into the mire, and I can’t save you, no matter how hard I try? One man keeping himself alive in London is hard enough. But two?”

He straightens his ruff around his neck, finished. He’s wearing the costume he never should have taken off in the first place. Margo’s warnings from earlier in the week ring in his ears. “I can’t ask you to carry me on your shoulders too, while we wait for you to bring your earnings home just so we can eat, like some dependent, like some dainty…”

“Spouse?” Q mumbles.

Eliot winces. But he forces himself to trek across the room, patting Quentin’s shoulder callously as he goes. “We’ve been flooded with intense emotions all week, so I get that you’re not thinking clearly. If we had the time, I’d talk all this over with you. But I’m afraid I can’t keep Fen waiting any longer.”

“So let me come with you,” Quentin insists, catching his sleeve. “Let me help you. Help you get through this. At least so you don’t have to go through it alone.”

Eliot shakes him off. “Stop it. Use your head. Fen’ll have you killed if you do. Look, just, just take Todd’s entrance over there, after we’ve gone. That’ll give you some cover. I’ll see you at The Whitespire tomorrow, and we’ll finish this then.”

He leaves the room without looking back. If he does, he’ll disintegrate into dust. Wrecked and ruined, beyond hope of repair. He can’t let himself think of the future.

As he closes the door behind him, he plasters a sickening, blasé smile on his face, shoves everything into the cavernous pit in his stomach, and opens the foyer door.

Todd leaps away, bowing and announcing him. Fen barely bothers to hide her scorn. She straightens the hem of her bodice, an olive piece embroidered with silver thread. It matches the fern-green ballgown she’s dressed herself in. Pearls are dripping down her gossamer sleeves, and they cascade across a hair net she’s wrapped around an intricate bun. Sickeningly, without any intention whatsoever, they match.

“Good morning, Lady Wessex,” Eliot says, even going so far as to bow in apology.

“My lord,” she retorts, jerking her head into a respectful nod. “Shall we be off?”

She turns on her heel, storming down the hallway. That is, until she stops short at the sound of creaking hinges. Everyone in the hallway turns around, to see a hunched, dark figure closing the door of Todd’s quarters. The man sputters and coughs loudly. He tugs a coffee brown cloak around his shoulders. It’s one of Eliot’s, stolen from his wardrobe, and it’s comically big on him. A teal blue scarf is wrapped around his face, masking all of his features, save for his sparkling brown eyes.

“Hrrrmmmpph,” Quentin mutters, still adjusting the cloak. “Finally ready are you, milord? ‘S about damn time.” His voice is gruff, with a courser accent and a put-upon, nasally air. He raises his head, like he’s just noticed everyone else. “Oh, my dear, I’m _so_ sorry, milady,” he simpers, his brown eyes going wide with exaggerated surprise behind the scarf. “Didn’t know y’were all the way up ‘n this part o’ the house. My my my, what will milord say, me swearing in front of such a vision of loveliness such’s–”

“Who are you?” Fen barks.

“Oh, I do _beg_ yer pardon, ma’m.” Quentin coughs a few more times, then sweeps into a bow, his hair tumbling down to the floor, then whipping back up as he rises again. “Quincy Rivers, at yer service. I’m Sir Waugh’s barrister, that I am. Accompan’in’ his son to Greenwich today.”

Eliot’s jaw drops to the floor.

What. In the high holy. FUCK. Does Quentin think he’s doing?!

Fen decides to put it a little more politely. “And why is his lordship sending his barrister?” she says, fully offended and ready to let him have it.

Before she’s halfway finished, Quentin’s already barging past them, heading for the staircase and adjusting his cloak as he goes, like he can’t be bothered to waste any more time. “Have to make sure all the parts of the arrangement go through, don’t I?” he harrumphs. “Have to make sure Sir Waugh gets what he paid for. Can’t have the two o’ you comin’ back saying you got Her Majesty’s favor when you really didn’t. Now come along, Master Waugh! Don’t want this touch o’ cold I got to get any worse, do you? Sooner we get this over with, sooner I get back to my tonics.” He descends the stairs with a final hack of his lungs.

Fen inhales so much air, Eliot suspects she’d float away if it weren’t for her gown. And he wouldn’t be far behind her. She levels the sweetest smile in his direction, acid tripping from her tone. “You’d think someone would have mentioned this little development to me.”

“You’d think,” Eliot echoes, his voice a few octaves higher than he means it to be. As Fen turns to follow “Quincy,” Eliot can’t help but shoot Todd a fearful look.

Todd’s about as dumbfounded as he is. “Want me to come along, sir?” he asks weakly.

“No,” Eliot says, his heart in his throat. “I’ll manage. Somehow.”

“Godspeed, sir.”

Eliot throws his hands up to the heavens in surrender and follows after the others. If he makes it through the day? Oh, he’ll _give_ “Quincy” something to cough about, alright. “Quincy’s” gonna be carrying a chalk and some slate around his neck for a _week_ , by the time he’s done wringing his neck.

Still.

Deep, deep down. Beneath all the layers. Beneath the metaphysical mask. Behind the self-flagellation and the genuine fear for their safety, Eliot wants to smile.

And he does, just for an instant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An Aside to the Audience
> 
> A fight choreographer like Victoria is both an old and relatively new role in theatre. There were "Masters of Fence," although there's no way to know if they were (or weren't) brought in to teach players how to fight back then. Usually, actors would choreograph the fights with or for each other. Stage combat is meant to be more flashy than accurate. Rather than just making sure you survive, all stage fights tell a story. More importantly, it's always been important to plan exactly what happens in a fight, beat by beat, action after action, and then always stick to that plan, so no one gets hurt and everyone stays safe. Actors always should feel comfortable in high-tension situations, even when their characters might be caught up in their emotions, throughout rehearsals and during performances. So what Quentin does here, by inserting himself into the fight, is actually a bit of a no-no by modern standards, haha. He's not the fight choreographer, so there's no way he'd be allowed to step in, especially since only the people in the fight should run the fight, and he's never run it before. I'd even go so far as to say that he then turns it into a moment for an intimacy choreographer (which is a VERY new role that, honestly, more companies need to bring to their productions these days) just as much as for a fight choreographer. Thankfully, he and El are VERY consensually eager to get their hands on each other here, and Mike's okay with it, and later chapters prove this to have been a good thing. 
> 
> A barrister is almost the same thing as a lawyer by our standards. A barrister drafts legal proceedings (like the contract of Sir Waugh funding Fen's enterprise) and gives expert legal opinions, as well as representing someone legally when they can't be there. They deal with legal matters in higher courts, as opposed to solicitors who work in the lower courts.
> 
> "Quincy" is also the name Penny calls Q in 2x04.


	10. Act Three, Scene Two

A barrister.

That’s a first, Quentin admits to himself. His improv skills are certainly on full display today. A fucking barrister. His alderman father, God rest his soul, would be very proud. After falling off his chair in shock. And laughing so hard tears came to his eyes, while he accidentally snorted ale out his nose. Yes. After all that, he’d be proud.

Quentins’s almost… a little proud, too, though. He’s pulling this character off rather well. It’s respectable enough that no one at Greenwich Palace questions his place here. Inversely, he’s just _disrespectful_ enough that no one really wants to talk to him anyway.

His brash comments, and the occasional cough, have garnered him sole occupancy of a corner in the palace’s great hall. He’s got his arms crossed, slouching against the wall, with a great view of each and every little clique of nobles, orbiting each other like celestial bodies in the night sky. There’s so much noise, from all the chatter and music, he can’t really focus on any one group.

He adjusts Eliot’s borrowed scarf on his nose, and admits the truth.

Of course he’s focusing on one in particular. It’s the crowd Eliot’s presiding over. King of his own social circle, with Fen at his elbow like a stubborn, prickly bur. Just as it was during the masked ball. As if the past week had been nothing but a fever dream.

There must be twenty people hanging on Eliot’s every word. He stands out among the sea of faces, tall and masculine, charming and formidable. His beautiful smile and radiant wit are outshone only by Queen Julia, and the vortex of power emanating from her golden throne.

For much of the evening, Penny Adiyodi’s been bringing various lords and ladies before the queen. For their fifteen minutes of glory, so they can petition for her opinion or favor.

Seeing the Master of Revels sets Q’s teeth on edge even now. Last time they’d been in the same room, Quentin’d seen more of the man than he’d ever cared to. As much as he wants to scrub every second of that from his memory… well, in a round-about way, Q also wouldn’t be here now if it wasn’t for him. The whole miserable scene in Kady’s bedroom, from Alice’s admissions to Penny’s candor, had been the catalyst for so much. It was enough to change Quentin’s life forever. So, he can’t hate him for his part in that, as convenient and easy as it would be. More importantly, he knows Penny’ll bring Eliot and Fen before the queen any second. The shackles fastened around Eliot’s freedom will only tighten, if all goes “well.” Q can’t be distracted. His Herculean struggle with wanting to punch Penny – and wanting to thank him with a handshake at the same time – will have to wait. He’ll have to force himself to keep watching him, then.

He snags a goblet off of a serving tray, downing the wine in three swallows. It burns in his belly. He grabs another, finishes it, and drops it on another tray passing by. He is making a rather bad habit of sneaking into these noble gatherings. He’s talked himself into three of them this month alone. Little good ever comes of it.

Okay, that’s not true either. The vindictive, childish part of him’s just trying to throw itself a tantrum. _Love_ had come from the last ball he’d snuck into. Who’s to say something good won't come from this one too?

Besides, what else was he supposed to do? Agree to all this, without a fight? Let Eliot push him away, right when he needed him most?

 _Or when_ Quentin _needed_ Eliot _most_ , that vindictive part of him sneers again. If he can’t lash out at anything, lashing inward is always the next obvious target.

Had Eliot been right, trying to force them apart this morning? Had he been right all along, trying to keep his distance with that letter?

Quentin’d been so caught up, in his romantic ideals, and the ink flowing from his quill, and the joy cascading through his veins with every pump of his heart. He hadn’t once tried to face reality. Every hour spent with Eliot had felt like the perfect escape. Like they had flown off to Fillory itself, making love and the purest magic with every shared breath, kiss, and moment of true pleasure.

It had been all the happiness he’d thought himself forever denied, washing over him in a tidal wave of passion. He’d never thought it would come to an end. That it _could_ end, truly. The darkness inside him had been dead fucking silent.

At least, until yesterday.

A dream. That’s all it taken.

It hadn’t even been a bad one. He’d been back in Stratford-on-Avon, laying out an elaborate picnic, in a vast meadow along the riverside. Eliot had been cracking open a bottle of cider, fresh from the press in the heart of town. Then, everyone from his old life had arrived, ready to meet the man that Quentin'd chosen to bring home. And by everyone, his brain decided, that meant both the living… and the dead.

The dream had bled into his writing. He’d needed to give his waking feelings an outlet, and that was the only way he could. He still wasn’t ready to reveal everything to Eliot. Having Brian endure such a merciless separation, being abandoned by a loved one only because Death had decreed it so, was easier. It turned the play on its head. It showed that there was always a price to pay for getting what you want.

Yet Eliot had been the one to pay it.

He’s still paying it now. Quentin can see it, in all the tiny twitches of his smirk. In the haughty rise of his eyebrows, and the wry tone surrounding every joke he tells. He’s such a great actor. Anyone who didn’t know him would think he was feeling on top of the world. Celebrating an advantageous match, his bride-to-be proud and jovial at his side.

But Quentin knows him, and he can see it for the theatre it is.

A burning, itching feeling has gotten under his skin. He realizes it’s anger. Not jealousy; a _fury._ At the _injustice_ of this world. He’s written these people comedy after comedy, given them timeless love after timeless love. And they have the _gall_ to decree one version of love is acceptable, while the other is not. He’s goddamn fucking furious that the world’s decided Eliot is more than welcome to tie himself to a stranger for the rest of his life, but God forbid Eliot spend the rest of his days with a man who’d vow to love him with every fiber of his being, and actually _keep_ that vow.

Quentin wants to channel Margo. To rip every part of this _lie_ society constantly tells itself, about what is right and what is wrong, to shreds. To show them what they’ve done to Eliot, to him, and to all the people like them.

He’s catapulted out of his thoughts as Penny bows to leave Queen Julia’s side. Penny then weaves through the crowd, to whisper into Fen’s ear. She and Eliot excuse themselves, almost at the same time, and the crowd parts so the Master of Revels can escort them back, presenting them to Her Majesty.

Quentin had stolen only quick, furtive glances at Julia back at Whitehall, but all night, he’s been marveling with the rest of them, free to stare at God’s chosen ruler. There isn’t an inch of her that’s not covered in reflective, deep cerulean satin. Her neck has forgone a ruff, in favor of a massive collar, framing her head like a waxing moon. A subtle, burgundy rouge tints her lips, which are set in a scrutinizing, stoic line.

How sharp her gaze is. Calculating, but not cold. The weight of her kingdom doesn’t show in her posture, but everyone can feel it. The might of the whole country stands at her back, ready and waiting.

Eliot and Fen bow low. The nobles around them allow all conversation die. It’s not every day a Wessex presents their intended spouse for judgement.

Julia nods at them to rise. “I know you,” she says, her eyes boring into Eliot. “You’re the one who attends every play at Whitehall. Richmond too.”

Eliot bows his head once again, acknowledging the truth of his habit. No quips now. The queen is the only one who will lead this conversation.

“What draws you to these plays so much?”

Quentin’s heart lurches into his throat. He knows at least part of that answer. It might be better for him to duck out of the room now. Because Eliot can’t give the ruling families of England _that_ particular truth. And Quentin may not like whatever answer Eliot decides is a safer one.

After considering it, Eliot smiles. There’s genuine warmth in it, and it settles Quentin’s stomach marginally.

“I love theatre, Your Majesty,” Eliot says.

“We’ve established that, yes.” Julia’s eyes glint, although her voice remains as neutral as ever.

Looking appropriately chastened, Eliot casts his eyes back down. The color starts to drain from Fen’s face. Standing in his corner, Quentin knows he would give up a limb, right now, if it meant he could be by his side instead.

It’s also impossible for him to say whether it’d be better, or worse, for Eliot to sabotage himself with one wrong move. Either intentionally, or accidentally. It’s impossible to say which outcome he wants more.

Gracious enough to give him options, Julia prompts, “Is it stories of kings and queens? Feats of arms? Or is it courtly love, perhaps?”

Whatever color was left in Fen’s face, it’s starting to rise on Quentin’s. It’s fine. It’s fine. He’s all the way across the room. There’s no way any of them know.

“I love poetry. Above all,” Eliot replies. The answer may be vague, but there’s an unyielding conviction behind it.

“Even above Lady Wessex?” Julia deadpans.

Quentin snorts, although the entire room erupts into chuckles. Some of it is obviously forced, but even Eliot is fighting a smile. It’s astounding, how Julia can see past it all. She can blatantly point out the farce going into an occasion like this. As her subject, Quentin’s always admired her, out of principle. But he finds himself actually _liking_ the Queen. As a person, not just a figurehead.

“My lady,” Julia turns her eyes on Fen, “when you can’t find your husband, you’d better look for him at the playhouse.”

The courtiers titter again, and Fen’s smile is nothing but teeth.

“But playwrights teach us nothing about love,” Julia goes on, not unkindly, addressing Eliot again. “They show how comical it can be, or how lustful it makes the unwitting. But the truth of love is beyond them. They have to marry the lovers by the end, and, briefly, all is well, and then the play ends. The essential beauty and hardship and perfection of love, over a lifetime, is out of any playwrights reach.”

“But it’s not!” Eliot bursts out.

Quentin blanches as Julia raises a single eyebrow. The perfectly controlled Eliot Waugh, unshakeable on stage and off, just decided _now_ , of all times, to break his composure and openly contradict _the fucking queen_?

Even Eliot can’t believe what he’s just done. “I mean, Your Majesty…” he stumbles to say, “playwrights currently don’t write plays that show this. They’ve… not been able to do that yet. But I believe there is… one. One playwright out there. Who can craft that story. Who _will_ give us a play that shows just how beautiful and difficult and perfect a full life… a _loved_ life. Truly is.”

Julia tilts her head to the side. The tension in the room is mounting.

Quentin drops his arms, pushing away from the wall. The scarf around his face hides his slack jaw. His mind’s nearly as blank as it’d been when Eliot kissed him in the boat. If every eye wasn’t trained on Julia right now, they’d see the tears he’s blinking away run down his face.

Julia’s not wrong: playwrights can’t show how complicated love really is. Not when they’ve only got five acts to do it, maximum.

He doesn’t deserve that level of praise. Eliot’s faith should be reserved for someone who’s got his act together. Who thinks, not just about overarching themes for his own make-believe shit, but also about _the_ bigger picture. He’d been so _ridiculously_ out of it this morning. One dream is apparently enough to make Quentin throw all sense away.

Who was he kidding, thinking his little offer would be enough for Eliot to turn his entire life upside down? It doesn’t matter how much he cares for him. He could write the best play in the history of theatre, but that wouldn’t be enough to change the world.

Fen’s the first one to break the quiet. She steps forward, sinking even lower this time. Her skirts sweep in front of Eliot, as if to sweep him under the rug. “My Lord Eliot is being optimistic and naïve, where Your Majesty is wise and practical. Truth _is_ the enemy of playacting, I’ll wager my fortune.”

“I thought you were here because you don’t have one,” says Julia.

The room echoes with the loudest laugh yet. And though Quentin doesn’t feel like joining them, he’s more than happy to think they’re justified.

As a writer, Quentin’s probably one of the most empathetic people in London. He understands what motivates people. Fen has done nothing to endear herself to him. For the sake of her fortune, she’s made the choice to run Plum off the road, to threaten his own life, and to completely ruin Eliot’s.

But, at the end of the fucking day, he’s supposed to hope she gets what she wants. He’s supposed to do nothing to get in their way. Eliot was right. What kind of life could they lead together, when they’re still so far apart. When he still has so much to tell him. When he doesn’t know if Eliot even _wants_ to give up everything, just to be with a borderline-penniless playwright. A playwright whose brain tears him to pieces, at the smallest provocation.

The audience finally stops laughing, and a brief silence takes over the room. Julia lets it play out, letting everyone feel it, before she notes dryly, “Looks like no one’s taking your wager today, Lady Wessex.”

Hold on.

How much money is it for a spot in the Chamberlain’s Men?

A group that, oh yeah, happens to have the queen’s favor. Where their time and efforts are rewarded with _guaranteed wages_.

Using all of his vocal training, Quentin puts on his most cantankerous shout, and cries, “Fifty pounds.”

Gasps tear through the room. Fen jerks her head around, looking ready to tear someone’s off. But he remains blissfully anonymous in the back of the crowd. Eliot’s standing right in her line of sight.

Meanwhile, Eliot’s back is as rigid as a statue’s. He’s practically memorized all the noises Quentin can make with his mouth. Naturally, he knows who just called out.

If he doesn’t wind up fleeing for his life any time soon? He expects Eliot’s going to make him pay dearly for this. He’s already in trouble after inviting himself along to Greenwich in the first place.

Julia’s the only one actually amused. “Fifty pounds,” she hums. “That is a worthy amount. It’s a worthy question: can a play depict the true _nature_ of a loved life? If we ask it ‘what is the beauty of all life,’ will it answer well?” She nods, the silver diadem on her head sparkling. “I will be the witness to the wager, as well as the judge of it. So long as a play claiming to do so _actually_ arises.”

Scattered applause makes a circuit around the hall, dutifully started by Penny. He’s barely hiding a smirk, no doubt delighted by all the antics. Like a Roman, invited to a day of blood sports at the Coliseum.

Julia asks, “The fireworks are next?” After he confirms it, waving at a page to go tell the entertainers to get ready, Julia gathers her skirts to stand. “They’ll be so calm after Lord Waugh’s company today. Lady Wessex, a word.”

The whole room bows as Julia goes to leave, Fen trailing behind her. Eliot doesn’t rise until both women are out of the hall, and then he swivels around, to look Quentin dead in the face. His stony hazel eyes, and his bitten lower lip, tell him all he needs to know.

That is, until he minutely shakes his head, and the side of his cheek twitches in a begrudging smile. Quentin slumps down in relief.

Nodding to a few nobles as he goes, Eliot brushes through the crowd and manages to slip over to Quentin’s corner. He’s grabbed two goblets along the way. As he hands one to Quentin, he puts his own to his lips, and murmurs, “You are playing with so much fire right now.”

“But I got to burn Fen in the process,” Quentin protests under his breath.

“Brat.” Eliot swirls the wine in his cup. The affection in his eyes dims. “Why didn’t you listen to me earlier? Why couldn’t you just wait ‘til tomorrow?”

Quentin adjusts his scarf again. He’s the lucky one; Eliot still has to keep his face controlled, in case any courtiers are watching. Suddenly, he misses their – well, _Eliot’s_ – bedroom. Where his smiles came easily. Where his laughs were the loudest. Where he feels safe enough to admit how badly he wants to get the play right. How he wants to prove to Margo he can be trusted with something this big. How he wants Quentin to be proud of him.

“After everything we said, about not feeling alone anymore,” Q answers, “you think I was gonna let you come here by yourself?”

“After the way I ended things this morning? Yeah.”

While he scans the crowd, Eliot misses Quentin rolling his eyes and smirking beneath his scarf. “I haven’t exactly been giving you a chance to think about the future lately.”

“I’m not letting you take _all_ the blame for that one.”

Is it bad that Quentin still wants to find some hidden room in the palace and kiss Eliot until they’re weak in the knees? And then _get on_ his knees, and–

Yes. Very bad. Very unhelpful. Just because Eliot stood up for him, to _the fucking_ _Queen of England_ _herself_ , does not mean he can–

Oh fuck, can’t he though?

Scratch that. Fen’s come back. She’s the picture of composure. Guess she must’ve gotten that blessing after all. She’s not letting anyone deter her as she makes her way over.

But instead of sharing good news with Eliot, she says, “Mr. Rivers, I have something to ask you.”

Well.

This is how it ends, isn’t it?

He’s been discovered. Queen Julia recognized him somehow. Or they didn’t get her permission after all. Or the kraken’s risen from the middle of the Thames, and he has to go fight it himself.

At least with the kraken, he might make it out alive.

If it weren’t for the three rules of improvisation, Quentin would be a panicking, hyperventilating puddle.

Stay in the present. Don’t ask questions. Don’t deny.

“At yer service, ma’am,” he nods. Neither he nor Eliot dare look at each other.

“In confidence,” she presses.

His heart’s not beating. It’s become some kind of vibrating buzz, to the envy of all hummingbirds. “Of course. Don’t worry, Master Waugh, I won’t be making any moves on your bride-to-be. That is, if the Queen _did_ give her royal blessing,” he says, glaring at Fen with more balls than brains.

She finally cracks, showing the vicious scowl she’d leveled at him back at the manor. “We have it, sir. You think I’d lie? And then send out the wedding invitations anyway, right under Her Majesty’s nose?”

“There’s nothin’ I ‘aven’t seen in my line o’ work,” he bluffs. Offering his elbow, to escort her from the room, he winks at Eliot. They’ve shared scenes before, they know how to take what the other gives them.

Eliot scowls, like Quentin’s been nothing but a thorn in his side. “I’d like to leave, after this.”

“Looking t’ fake a deathly illness? Want to say yer estate’s been sacked by bandits? We’ll still need the queen’s permission t’ go, no matter what excuse you come up with,” Quentin says. It’s partly in-character, partly authentic caution.

Fen’s not deterred. She’s making for the open French doors across the hall, like a hound after a scent.

As he’s dragged along by the crook of his arm, he shoots back, “I’m sure we’ll return by the time you land on th’ best one,” and then coughs loudly. It makes Fen loosen her grip.

She doesn’t take him far beyond the patio outside. If they go somewhere too secluded, rumors might get started that’d be impossible to stop.

“How long have you been keeping an eye on Lord Eliot?” she says, finally letting him go.

He’s thrown back to the night of the masked ball once again. But she’s not observing every inch of his face this time. She’s not waiting for him to make the wrong move, so she can strike.

Just because she doesn’t seem to recognize him, though, that doesn’t mean she’s any less dangerous now. She’ll know if he lies, or if he tells the truth. He can’t underestimate her again. At least with the truth, he doesn’t have to keep track of his stories, while he tries to outplay her.

“Since his parents left, milady,” he says, trying to sound full of himself.

They head a little farther out onto the Greenwich lawn. Torchbearers have gone ahead of them, to illuminate the path. Fen stops close to one tall post, so she’s entirely in shadow. If anyone from the hall looks out, they’ll just see two anonymous silhouettes.

“So you’ve noted any visitors? Social calls? Midnight liaisons?” she says.

“Can’t say there’ve been too many of those,” he admits with a shrug. “Visitors don’t have much reason to come anymore, since yer ladyship’s engagement.”

“Any other women, besides myself?”

He wants to laugh right in her face. Instead, he pretends to look offended. “Certainly not! I’m not ‘bout to risk Sir Waugh’s investment like that. Losin’ my job’d be the least o’ my worries.”

“Oh, then Her Majesty, out of the goodness of her own heart, _warning_ me that my betrothed is in love with another, is just a coincidence?” she says, pulling out a fan to beat away the heat.

This is either the very bait on the trap he needs to avoid, or she’s still got a few moves up her sleeve, before she readies the hook.

He scratches the edge of his jaw through the scarf. But it takes him too long to come up with a good answer. She takes his little gesture as the confirmation it technically is. With an exhale that’s almost a growl, she asks, “When was the last time you saw Sebastian King?”

It’s always easier to play dumb. “The Blackspire’s got one of his plays goin’–”

“Not ‘the works of,’” she says through clenched teeth. “The poet himself.”

“Just the other day, why?” he says.

She snaps the fan closed. “That insolent, penny-a-page, mountebank… _dog_.”

Shit. _Shit_. He can’t think of anything else to say. Fen’s already heading back into the hall.

He jogs after her. “What I meant, yer ladyship–”

“I have no more questions for you, Mr. Rivers,” she says. Her pace is so quick, they’ve already returned to the glowing light from the great hall. A group of ladies open up their ranks to welcome her back in. Eliot’s been absorbed into a group of debating nobles, and Quentin’s too keyed up to even bother joining him again.

Shit. Shitshitshitshitshit. He’s lost his chance to fix anything.

They don’t get to speak for the rest of the ball. When he goes outdoors later, to enjoy the fireworks along with everyone else, he knows they ought to be filling him with inspiration. They look almost like magic, fired up into the sky like that. Blasts of light, beating back the dark for mere moments. The pyromancers have even found a way to change their colors. Vivid blues, pale greens, stark reds. He knows he’ll probably never see their like again.

But all he can think of, is how he should’ve been more careful. How he might have just made Seb’s life infinitely more complicated. He has no idea when he’ll next see him, so he can explain himself, and warn him.

Dreadfully, Fen’s actually the one who manages to get their permission to leave. They don’t get an explanation. Nor are they privy to whatever excuse Fen used. After the fireworks, she simply informs Eliot they can go, and he then waves Quentin over from his perch on the sidelines.

They find their way back to the black Wessex carriage. Their return to Eliot’s house is completely silent, except for Quentin’s forced coughs, so he can keep up appearances. Fen delivers them on the manor doorstep an hour later. Besides two begrudging questions – checking that Mr. Rivers was satisfied, and that he’ll be reporting their success back to Sir Waugh promptly – she says nothing more. A tap of her fan on the windows, and her footmen start driving back to her estate.

“Well, that could’ve gone worse,” Eliot says, leaning against one of the massive doors. He unclasps his ruff and twirls it around his finger.

Quentin can’t bring himself to agree. What’s going to happen to them? How long do they have? Anything he thought he had control over has been ripped out of his hands today. There’s this _compulsion_ in his head, to fix something. Anything. If only he could just scratch out everything he’s said today, twice over, then toss the draft in the bin, and start from the beginning.

Eliot takes his borrowed cloak off of Quentin’s shoulders. “Wanna come in the proper way this time?” He tilts his head towards the inside of the house. He’s smiling.

And, seeing that, Quentin can’t pretend anymore. As nice – really, really _nice_ – as it would be, to go in through the front door, like a normal – guest? friend? lover? – whatever, and return to the sanctuary they’d been forced to leave this morning, he doesn’t think he can. The Trojan horse has forced its way through their walls. The Minotaur’s found Theseus and Ariadne before they’ve escaped the labyrinth. And he can’t slay this monster. Not right now. Maybe not ever.

“I don’t think I should,” he murmurs, crossing his arms against his chest.

“Alright, fine,” Eliot chuckles. “Balcony it is. I’ll have Todd bring up a few bottles from Father’s cellars. After tonight, we deserve to drain them dry.”

Eliot’s still acting. Quentin can see it, hear it. Feel it snagging against his skin. “No, I’m. Uh. I’m going back to London.”

“What?” laughs Eliot, a little louder. “Come on. You’re exhausted, and we could both use some time to wind down. Aren't you gonna tell me more about the next scene, between Brian and Nigel?”

A shuddering breath escapes him.

Right. He remembers. He’d been seconds from forcing himself to say… what he’d thought himself ready to say to Alice. Brian and Nigel had only been the pretense. He’d been about to _tell_ him. About what he’d really left behind in Stratford-on-Avon, all those years ago. Sitting down on that balcony this morning, with Eliot’s hand in his, he’d known he wasn’t ready. Not by a long shot.

Because telling Eliot about the last, key piece of his life story would make or break them. And as much as he knew it would wreck Eliot... out on that balcony, he’d been gearing himself up to do it anyway. He had to be brave, just like any hero of Fillory would. Just like T – like someone he once knew, would want him to be.

Because what he has with Eliot? It’s like _nothing_ he’s ever felt or experienced before. Being with Eliot feels like a _promise_ . One that he knowingly made, and _will_ keep, no matter the cost.

He’s seen Eliot work himself to the bone. Not for the fame the play will bring, but because the play is Quentin’s. And Margo’s, and Josh’s, and Mike’s and Skye’s and Fogg’s and everyone else’s. Even Tick’s. This past week, Eliot improvised a few lines, even a whole speech once, to queue his scene partners and jog their memory, when they’d blanked on the next part of the script. Eliot has questioned and discussed and learned. He’s given his time and his energy and his _faith_ in this work, in their fantasy world, in Quentin himself, every damn day.

So who was Quentin, to hide such a crucial part of who he is? To expect Eliot to keep giving all of himself, to this beautiful life they’ve been creating together, while Quentin still holds a part of himself back?

But after today, it turns out Quentin was right all along. Burdening Eliot with his old life isn’t right. Forcing him to grapple with it, when he already has to grapple with the pressures of hiding himself from society, from his family. It’d be cruel. Eliot had spoken true today: this whole week was just a flood of intense emotions. Where Quentin selfishly enjoyed all the benefits, and thought nothing of the repercussions.

And now even Seb, his mentor, his guide, has been implicated in his foolishness.

He can’t be with Eliot tonight. Their already very lucky circumstances are changing, right before their eyes. He needs to remind himself of that. Most of his plays have a return to the status quo in the end. Why would this one – _Brian_ or _Janet_ or whatever the fuck he’s calling it these days – be any different?

Why would _he_ , Quentin Coldwater, the broken man from Stratford, write it any different? _Be_ any different?

The beauty of all life? No. Just the truth of all life, Your Majesty. That’s what he’s got to write now. Keep the fifty pounds, Fen. He’ll never earn them.

Quentin puts a heavy, sheepish hand behind his neck. He can act too, just like Eliot. This time, though, he'll knowingly break the promise they made in his bed. He cannot be “himself” while he’s with him. He’s not allowed to anymore.

“Oh. Um. Yeah, you know what?” he says, wincing in exaggeration. “Never mind. I still have a few things to work out, with that part. I really need to go over it again. That’s why I was thinking of going back home. To make it right.”

“But home is… well, all of your Act Three pages are here,” says Eliot.

“I remember them all anyway.” He gives a flippant wave up at the manor’s second story. “You can hang onto them for now, bring them to The Whitespire tomorrow.”

“Okay, well, I’d…” Eliot swallows. That eccentric tone drops from his voice, and an earnest expression takes its place. “I’d still… like it if you worked here. If you think I’ll be a distraction or something, I can go in one of the other rooms and read, or plan my Fall wardrobe, or–”

“Or your wedding ensemble.”

Quentin feels like he’s taken some of Bacchus’s arsenic after he says it.

He’s been doing that a lot. Saying things they’re supposed to pretend they can ignore.

Seeing how the words stab at Eliot is barely the punishment he deserves.

But Eliot must realize Quentin’s breaking their promise. So he breaks it too. He transforms. Back, again, into the person he becomes at parties.

“Can’t fault you there,” he agrees. “That’s definitely going to distract you if you stay. Todd and I’ll be talking ourselves hoarse about all that tonight. And I’ll have to start packing. Ugh, what a nightmare.”

“Packing?”

Eliot plasters on a smile. He opens his mouth, to make a glib confession… and then his face falls.

Quentin suddenly sees that, as much as Eliot’s in the habit of pretending…. With whatever he’s about to say, he _can’t_ pretend. It’s too much. Too big. It fills Quentin with more dread than he’s felt in a very long time.

“Marrying Fen means I have to… set sail. And leave England. For Virginia.”

“The colony?” Quentin whispers.

Eliot nods. “The whole reason she’s doing all this? Is to go start gold mines in the New World.”

Well. How about that. Just when he thought nothing else could be ripped away from him.

He’s not only losing Eliot to a loveless marriage. He’s losing him to another world entirely. The barriers between them are suddenly impossible to overcome. Maybe overcoming them has always been impossible. Maybe they were never supposed to be together in the first place.

He needs a knife. He needs his quills. He needs to pierce something into his heart, and let all the emotions siphon out of him, and leave him hollow. That’s the only way he’s going to survive the night. And instead of asking what’ll become of them. Instead of begging Eliot, one last time, to flee. To run away, and be with him, in his cramped little rooms. He just says, “We’ll have to find someone else for the show, then.”

“I didn’t know how to tell you,” Eliot moans. He looks down at his shoes. “I couldn’t. I couldn’t lose this. All this. It’s…” Suddenly, fiercely, he looks back up and locks eyes with him. “It’s too important to me. I _can’t_ give it up. I want to enjoy every moment of it, while I still can.”

All he can do is nod. He understands that. He’s thought those very words before. When the darkness had its claws in him, and the stage was the only thing that kept him here.

“I’ll make sure you do,” he says dully. “I’ll write it for you. I’ll write the play you told the queen I could.”

He takes the scarf off of his face. A cool wave of air hits his burning cheeks and his chapped lips. Folding it up, he raises the cloth to his mouth, and presses a kiss at its center. He gives it back to Eliot, their fingers brushing as he takes it. Just like they had with the pipe, a short eternity ago. That’s as much of a goodbye as he can manage.

It takes him half an hour to get back to London, the Sunday night traffic at a lull. Everyone’s sequestered back at home, with their families, getting ready to resume work tomorrow. His room, though, is empty. It's stuffy too, even after he unlocks the door and opens the window. He hasn’t been back here for a whole week. Nothing’s changed.

As if that isn’t symbolic enough, his writer brain remarks coldly.

His desk pulls at him, like it’s the source of his sickness, and his cure, all at once. He takes off everything except his shirt and underclothes. He sits, and begins.

A few precious candles dwindle into puddles of wax, as he writes and writes and _writes_.

The “proof of concept” moment that he and Eliot crafted together takes on a sharper edge. As promised, Brian and Nigel do remember the lives they led together at the mosaic. Brian proposes that they join their separate peoples together. The magician college, and the rest of Fillory, all under one banner, one house, one _family._ He's certain that, based on his lifetime of memories, of friendship and dedication and love, that Nigel will agree.

But Nigel refuses. He has to. And Quentin can’t help but use some of Eliot’s words here. They fit too well. Ring too true.

He throws more obstacles at the two kings, to reinforce the new distance between them. Kimber’s quest book reveals where magic has been locked away: The Castle at the End of the World. The book also tells of a monster, locked within the castle. A monster that must be guarded, no matter the cost. Even if the kings use their hard-won key to restore magic to Fillory, someone has to stay behind. And so, Brian begins to understand where his place in the story truly fits. He’s not the _High King_ of Fillory, after all. He can make this sacrifice. And the quest has made him ready. He’s learned how to dedicate his life to a greater purpose.

The iambs don’t come easily. He nearly goes through all his spare sheets of parchment. He winds up using old broken quills, sharpening them into barely serviceable implements. Two of his ink pots run dry.

He falls asleep at his desk.

And dreams again.

When he wakes up, the midday sun’s already high in the sky, dragging him from his visions.

“Shit,” he groans.

There're pages everywhere. Most of them are rejects. But the final copies are among them. He’s lucky he thought to number each one. Fifteen. Or sixteen. That’s the last he remembers doing, although he knows he did more.

He’d missed this, once. The sea of his work all around him. It’s what he told Bacchus he wanted all along. A sight like this used to make him proud. Happy. Like his purpose was fulfilled, for the moment. Like all the answers had been found, even for a little while.

At first, it feels like he’s waiting for something. But nothing happens.

Then he gets it. He’s waiting for Eliot to shift in the bed, or come up behind and caress him, or walk across the floorboards as he practices his speeches under his breath.

Cracks open up across Quentin’s ribs, once he realizes this.

But he can’t give in to tears. He can’t imagine not having all that ever again. That reality will happen soon enough. It’s time to go to work. Margo will help him find his center once more. Zelda might have another book to recommend, and Lipson might want some advice on how to tell stories to her young ones. Eliot will be there too. As much as it’ll hurt to see him, it’ll heal him too. Every second with him, from now on, will be good. Because they’ll be all he has, after a while.

Breakfast comes from a quick stop at a nearby tavern, once he puts new clothes on. He doesn’t taste any of the eggs. His pages, folded in half, get tucked under his arm. Even though everyone’s waiting for him, he doesn’t rush. He doesn’t have the energy. Hazy heat rolls off of the cobblestones in the streets. August is ending, but summer's ready to stick around.

The Whitespire doors are wide open again, just like yesterday. Shouting beats against his ears from inside the house. There’s not enough to distinguish one voice from another. The words don’t sound like any he’s written, though.

Not to mention, the actors inside aren’t part of his company. He recognizes Dylan and Whitley, two peas in an agitated pod, who win every staged and real-world fight they’ve ever been in. Alongside them are Silver, Bender, Menolly, and Richard. Bigby’s on the far left. Lunk’s there too, brandishing a quarter staff, with Cancer Puppy sitting obediently at his heels. No sign of Alice, thank his unlucky stars, although there are easily four other members of the Chamberlain’s Men standing in a formation before the stage. At their head is Kady, pacing back and forth.

She’s got her eyes on Margo, who in turn has planted her hands on her hips. But she’s not playacting, and Kady’s not here to watch. Margo’s being confronted. The Admiral’s Men don’t _need_ to back her up, but some of them ready themselves anyway. Idri’s on stage, his fists clenched, with Ess at his elbow. Micah’s sitting on a stool, but he looks seconds away from standing and using it as a weapon.

“You hiding him?” Kady accuses, finally coming to a stop.

“He’s a grown man,” Margo says evenly, although her nails dig into her hips, like barely sheathed claws. “He can hide himself without my help.”

“Hide who?” Quentin asks.

Kady whips around, and Margo swears under her breath.

Quentin freezes in place. And then everything clicks in his head. Yeah. He kinda owes Kady a whole ass play, doesn’t he. The pages under his arm are like bright colors, painted on a target he’s already got on his back.

The Chamberlain’s Men part like the Red Sea, as Moses herself storms towards him.

“Sebastian King came to see me today. At The Blackspire,” Kady announces. She uses all of her prowess in commanding this scene. Projection. The timing of each word. “I thought he was there to check on _Faustus_. Turns out, he's teasing me about a new play he’s got. And he happened to mention _you_ had a new one too. But it was at The _Whitespire_.”

Denying this would be incredibly stupid. So he does something even stupider. Josh is at the edge of the audience, propping himself up on the balcony. Marina’s keeping an eye on things in the far corner. Quentin walks over, and hands Josh the pages. For the first time, he doesn’t look grateful. Marina smirks, though.

“You _shithead_ ,” Kady says.

He’s supposed to be staying on her good side. Doing everything he can to earn a place in her company. Working with her is the Big, Bright Future he’s been laboring after all this time.

At this point, though? What future would that be, exactly?

“Honest work for honest pay,” he responds, fully aware of the irony, as he walks back to her.

Margo’s taken her hands off her hips. She doesn’t know what he’s playing at, but she’s ready to back him up.

Kady’s eyes narrow. “You gonna ‘honestly’ pay back what you owe me, then?”

“No,” he admits. He spent the last of his money on breakfast this morning, after that last boat ride almost cleaned him out.

But that’s not the real reason. He’s given up on being careful. Polite. Well-behaved.

Kady grabs a handful of his black jacket. Margo springs into action, vaulting off the stage. The Admiral’s Men aren’t far behind, although they aren’t nearly so dramatic about it. They file to the ground, pairing off with the Chamberlain’s Men.

“What’d I ever do to you?” Kady growls.

“Nothing,” he says, looking away. There’s more movement, out of the corner of his eye. Eliot’s entered from backstage. And that is Quentin’s mistake. Like Fen, Kady must've been looking for something. He doesn’t know what it could be, but Kady sees it.

“Is this about you and Alice?” she says.

Genuinely, it’s not. He doesn’t blame Kady for anything about that. He has no reason to flinch – except he’s afraid Eliot heard the question. Which he shouldn’t be. It’s not like he and Alice were together, when he and Eliot took each other to bed. But he doesn’t know how he’d react to the information. It might foreshadow how he’ll take other, worse news. So Quentin does end up flinching, in spite of himself.

“You hurt her, you know.” Kady squeezes his jacket harder. “You were her friend. She trusted you with a part of her. A part that not a lotta people know about. And you were just a big-ass baby, walking out of her life like that. She’s cried a couple times.”

He tilts his chin up. “What’re you gonna do about it?”

She punches him, that’s what. Square across the jaw.

All hell breaks loose in the theater.

When thespians fight, they fight big. Everyone gets stage combat training. They know what every blow _means_. Where it’ll hurt someone’s pride, as opposed to their body. Sometimes, though, hurting the body works out pretty well, too.

Idri and Lunk are evenly matched walls of muscle, who protect their softs spots well. Still, Idri’s right eye starts to swell instantly, after Lunk gets through his guard. Cancer Puppy breaks away and heads for Quentin, now that his master’s distracted. But since Kady’s coming for him again, the dog starts to scamper away. He’s going to get trampled that this rate, what with Margo holding off Dylan and Whitley like a trio of cats in an alley. Quentin ducks around Kady, scoops up Cancer Puppy, and books it for the stairs by the side of the stage.

Kady doesn’t miss a beat, hot on his heels. Eliot’s crossing the stage, running towards him, along with Ess and Micah. The two of them let him through, and then block Kady’s path like a pair of burly iron gates.

She shows them no mercy, kneeing Micah right in the stomach and blocking Ess’s wide swinging fist. But Eliot’s already got an arm around his back, and he’s parting the curtains to escape backstage.

“What the fuck?!” Eliot hisses.

“I’ll tell you later.” Quentin shoves Cancer Puppy into his arms. “Let’s get you out of here.”

Eliot wrestles with the animal trying to lick his face off. “Like I’m gonna leave you–”

“Beast, mercy!” Quentin orders.

Cancer Puppy stops, familiar with the trick and expecting a treat for his obedience. They have to hurry. Kady won’t waste time brawling. If Quentin’s not careful, he’ll just let himself get caught, just like he’d let himself take that punch.

There’s a door Eliot’s never been through before. That’s where Quentin leads him. It goes down to a small space beneath the stage. Lots of players like to call it Hell, although Q never got the taste for it. It’s tall enough that Eliot doesn’t have to duck his head. There’s not much down here besides some spare furniture against the walls. Most of the center of the room is occupied by heaps of pillows, cushions, and feather mattresses. A ladder sticks out in the center, next to the nest of bedding. Climb it, and an actor gets right underneath the trapdoor. It’s always perfect for those times when the fae of Fillory need to rise out of the earth, or if a character is being dragged into its namesake by demons or spirits, during some other play besides Quentin’s. Sunlight lances through the darkness, from all the gaps in the stage’s boards. The light flickers as people exchange blows, shuffling around as they try to keep their footing.

Eliot sets Cancer Puppy down on the ground. The dog snuffles around the space to explore. Closing the door behind him, Q blithely indicates the pile of pillows for Eliot to rest on. But the man refuses to budge, crossing his arms.

“You’re not going back up there, are you?” Eliot says.

Quentin runs his hands through his hair, avoiding his sore cheek as he tucks a few locks behind his ear. “Kady’s not going to give up until she’s finished with me,” he concedes. “But you shouldn’t be up there, it’s not safe.”

“Yes, I should.”

Quentin raises an eyebrow. “Can you fight? Not for pretend; I mean really fight. Did you learn from someone? You know how to defend yourself?”

“Anybody can do it,” Eliot dismisses.

“Can ‘anyone’ do it while their dick’s tucked away?” Quentin says bluntly. “One wrong punch or kick, you’ll double over. People might try to help, and you might be discovered.”

“Stay down here with me, and I won’t have to,” says Eliot. He takes a step closer, putting both of his hands on Quentin’s arms.

He can feel the warmth of his palms through his leather sleeves. It sends a shiver down his limbs. He hasn’t touched him since yesterday. That’s already much too long for his aching heart. Even in the dim light, Quentin can see the dark circles around Eliot’s eyes.

“Did you sleep at all, last night?” he can’t help but ask.

“Did you?” Eliot says knowingly.

“Not the restful kind.”

Quentin wants to take Eliot’s face in his hands. Smooth that bruised look away. Feel the hint of stubble beneath the pads of his fingers, as he skims his thumbs across his flushed cheeks. Distantly, he can hear the slams and shouts of the war raging above their heads.

Screw it. He can stay here after all.

With more hesitation than he’d like, he brings his arms up, and wraps them around Eliot. He can feel his initial surprise, before it melts away. He’s warm. His breathing is slowing down, and they sigh almost at the same time. Q’s nose fills with spice. From those little sprigs of cinnamon and rosemary, the ones Todd folds into the clothes in the wardrobe. Eliot tucks him under his chin, and Quentin flat-out _snuggles_ into the space Eliot makes for him.

“I dreamed,” Quentin says, speaking down towards Eliot’s heart, thinking of Virginia, “that you were trapped. Imprisoned. In a large house. A cottage, but bigger. And. And I was supposed to get you out of there. It was my job. My whole purpose. Nothing else mattered. But I couldn’t get to you. You were always somewhere I couldn’t reach, even as you went from room to room, through door after door, and tried to get out too. To give me a sign you were in there.”

* * *

[ ](https://yourtinseltinkerbell.tumblr.com/post/630338730766614528/eliot-tucks-him-under-his-chin-and-quentin)

* * *

“Hey. Hey. It’s okay. It’s okay, sweetheart,” soothes Eliot.

A crash, like a chair breaking apart as someone’s hit with it, sounds above their heads. Eliot and Quentin do little more than jerk at the sound, before tightening their hold on each other.

“Easy!” they hear Josh shout. “We need that for the mosaic scene!”

“I want to find you, wherever you go,” Quentin says over the din. He presses his mouth over Eliot’s heart. “I want to keep you safe, and help you get out of any kind of… I don’t know, prisons? That you’re in. Doesn’t matter if they’re out here in the real world, or in your head, or–”

“I don’t want to lose you either,” Eliot translates. Sliding his strong hands around, he cups the back of Quentin’s neck. It draws Quentin out of his head so powerfully, so assuredly. He can feel the little folds in the joints of his fingers. The places where his hair catches, and bends beneath their weight. “I want to be with you every second I can.”

Eliot’s mouth is already halfway there. All Quentin has to do is: “Please. Please, El–”

Their lips press together perfectly. Gorgeous heat. Grounding pressure. Quentin slides his tongue into Eliot’s mouth, tasting sourness. The wine he’d offered to share last night. Probably too much of it. And mint, chewed this morning to try and wash it away. And the kiss, within all that, is _good_. It’s life and color and sound and being known. He is the tether and the tethered. He is the wing, and the wind that helps it soar.

He runs his fingers through Eliot’s curls, mirroring his hold on him. Eliot makes a noise that starts a fire inside, but he doesn’t need to fan the flames. He’s warm enough.

They shift, and Eliot’s nose brushes against Quentin’s cheek. Stinging crests across his face, and he pulls away with a wince. When he opens his eyes, as the pain fades, he’s met with Eliot’s anxious hazel gaze. Before he can reassure him, that it was just a punch, Eliot leans back in. With the pressure of a butterfly’s wing beat, he brushes kisses across Quentin’s cheek.

The darkness in his brain had lessened this morning. This small action drives it even farther away. Eliot is his light. Quentin has become his best self, because of him. He can only hope to return all of that, as much as he can, as often as he can. It’s the least he can do. It’s everything he wants to do. He was wrong last night. Telling Eliot about himself has to happen. To trust him is to honor everything that Eliot means to him.

He brings their lips together again. They kiss like they always have. Like this is their world, that they built together, and are still shaping with their own two hands, always. It’s beautiful work. A beautiful life, that they’ve just started to live.

* * *

[ ](https://yourtinseltinkerbell.tumblr.com/post/630339648211861504/he-brings-their-lips-together-again-they-kiss)

* * *

A body falls on the trapdoor over their heads, breaking them apart. Whoever it is, they’re still fit to get back up, and rejoin the fight.

“Whatever happens, however long we have…” Quentin says, his eyes still trained on the boards.

Eliot tilts his head back down, looking at him head on. “We’ll make the most of it.” He laces their fingers together. He brings their hands up, to place a kiss on his knuckles. The new smudges and smears of ink bring him up short. A fond smile curls on his lips.

“Puuuuppy! Come!” Lunk calls out. Cancer Puppy yips. He runs over and puts his paws on the bottom rung of the ladder. Lunk calls the dog again and again, and the answering barks make them both wince.

Unless they hightail it out of Hell right this second, their discovery is guaranteed.

Someone jangles the trapdoor, trying to pry it open. Quentin and Eliot head for the stairs, and Cancer Puppy follows eagerly, satisfied with his little adventure. Once they’re backstage again, they’re forced to let go of each other when Tick parts the curtains. Cancer Puppy scampers through, running right between Tick’s legs, chasing the sound of his master’s call.

“Mr. Coldwater!” Tick calls, once Cancer Puppy’s gone, “Come quick!”

“What is it?”

“That woman!” Tick’s eyes go wide with glee. “Ms. Andrieski! She’s driving the Chamberlain’s Men off! She and her henchman joined the fray!”

Eliot glances at Quentin, and the two of them start forward. Through the velvet curtains, The Whitespire’s stage and house are a mess. Anything backstage that could’ve served as a weapon, has been. Benches have been knocked on their sides. Staves, boards, racks, and fake trees have been cracked in half across the floor. Pillows were clearly used as both shields and weapons. Half of their feathers are strewn about like the scene of a hen house massacre. At least the mosaic and its tiles weren’t brought out. Josh looks like he’s about to be sick. He’s definitely calculating the cost to repair everything in his head.

Out of the corner of her eye, Margo clocks that Q and Eliot are unscathed as they enter. Just to be safe, she silently jerks her head, to ask if all’s well. After a quick nod from Quentin, he then makes a gesture of his own, something along the lines of “How’d everyone else fare?” She bites her lip with pride, and darts her eyes around the room, encouraging him to see for himself.

Most of the company's gathered around the stage, watching what’s unfolding at the edge of it. No one’s been seriously hurt. Most are sporting a few bruises, but hardly any blood’s been spilt besides a few cut lips, and one or two deep scratches, mostly from splinters.

Even Poppy Kline seems to have come out of the woodwork. During this past week, she’d apparently swallowed her pride, and agreed to be a stagehand. In the hope of learning to be better, she’d said. Massaging her wrist now, like she’s thrown one too many punches, she flips Lunk off one last time, as he gathers Cancer Puppy in his arms and bolts out the public entrance. Marina’s bodyguard literally kicks another actor’s ass off the stage, sending him flying, before he crashes to the ground.

But Kady and Marina are at Center Stage, locked together, unblinking and hyper-focused. It’s hard to say who he’s rooting for. His (possibly former) friend? Or the shadowy figure who has Josh by the balls _but_ is making sure they all get paid?

Marina’s driving Kady towards the edge, panting but confident. “Think you can come in here and endanger my investment?” she yells.

“I don’t give a fuck,” Kady says. She grabs for Marina’s hair, stomping on her foot with the heel of her boot. Screams erupt from both of them, as Marina retaliates with a jab to Kady’s kidneys.

Quentin moves to stop them. Kady’s here for him: there has to be something he can do, to stop all this. If she's here to get something from him, something out of him, instead of following her cohorts out of the theater, then The Whitespire and the company are still paying for his mistakes. If Kady still wants her pound of flesh, he’ll promise to apologize to Alice fifty ways from Sunday. And promise to give Kady another play, after this one finished. Free of charge.

A familiar, favorite pair of hands drape over both his shoulders, keeping him in place. Eliot won’t let him go. Quentin could fight his grip. He could break free anyway, against Eliot’s wishes.

He relaxes, and takes a step back. The hands on his shoulders tighten just a little before falling away.

Marina scratches Kady’s hands, but it doesn’t make her let go. She aims a jab at her neck, which doesn’t work either. Finally, she swings her around, using her weight against her. “These are my people,” she says. The sound is like a battle cry. “This is our work. You don’t get to destroy that!” And she throws Kady over the edge, straight to the ground, just like Pete had.

The whole theater goes still, except for Dylan and Whitley. They dash over to help their leader rise. Quentin feels an energy thread itself through his company. Like they’re all holding hands, without touching, or harmonizing in a chorus, without singing. Kady must feel it too, as she dusts herself off and stares them down. Faced with this little army – one that doesn’t know why she attacked their playwright, only that he’s worth protecting with everything they have – she tsks, and pries open her money pouch.

She pulls out a white circlet. The fox bracelet, which she sets on the audience balcony by the door. Meeting Quentin’s eyes, she calls out, “At least say you’re sorry.” Then she marches out, Dylan and Whitley trailing behind. 

“Say sorry yourself, bitch!” Marina replies obtusely. She turns, seeing the faces of the rest of the company staring at her. She frowns. “What?”

“We’re ‘your people,’ huh?” Margo says.

“That’s not what I meant,” Marina scoffs, although she crosses her arms, looking away.

Biting her tongue between her teeth, smiling with delight, Margo holds up her hand. “Everyone? Three cheers for the newest member of the family.”

Whistling, cacophonous clapping, and shouting all pour out of them. Several members even rush forward to shake Marina’s hand. Pete, ever on watch, tenses up as so many people rush at his employer. But Marina makes a small gesture, calling her dog off. She doesn’t quite know what to make of their acceptance and admiration, judging by the look on her face. But an uncertain smile twitches at the corner of her mouth.

She shakes her head. “Ah what the hell. Who’s up for a few rounds at The Hare on the Ass?”

Naturally, at the offer of drinks from the rowdiest tavern – and brothel – this side of the river, the cheers get even louder. Quentin expects the walls of the theater to start shaking. Idri practically slings Marina over his shoulder on his way out, and the rest of the company parades behind their hero.

Quentin, Eliot, and Margo are the last to leave, knowing there’s no way rehearsals will resume after this. As they lock the doors and head out, at the last second, Quentin retrieves the fox bracelet from the balcony, staring at all the little details that had so fascinated him before. Foolishness and self-pity wash through him, when he sees the tiny scroll still stuck in the fox’s mouth.

“Orloff really started all that, just for that?” Margo asks him.

Eliot’s looking at him too, his glance more telling than his silence. Deciding not to hide it away, he sets it back down on the balcony, and turns to face them both. “No,” he says. “She started it because I’m in deep shit, and I _do_ need to apologize.”

“Is that just your low opinion of yourself talking, or actual deep shit?” says Margo.

“Kinda both, I guess.”

Considering it’s not just Kady and Alice he needs to speak with, but Seb as well, that ‘guess’ is more of a certainty than he’d care to admit.

He stretches out his arms and bends them a little, offering to escort both of his friends. “Come on, I feel like getting very drunk tonight.”

Margo scoffs, although there’s no heat to it. It’s almost loving – as if she’d ever allow him to label it that way in public. Not one to be led anywhere, she yanks his arm, and tucks it into the crook of hers instead. But she doesn’t lead him out of the theater just yet. Quentin’s other arm is still waiting for Eliot.

The man’s eyebrows rise up, and he bites his lip. Quentin feels a wave of sadness, then, at how Eliot’s always surprised to be included. And sure, it’s only been a short time, since the theatre opened its arms to him. Since they all had. He’s not going to get over that surprise at the drop of a hat.

Quentin makes a promise to himself. It’s time to include Eliot in everything. From now on, starting tonight.

He winks at him. A reassurance, not without a little teasing. Eliot smiles, and steps forward to thread his arm through Quentin’s.

The three of them make it to The Hare on the Ass just as the first tankards are poured. Marina’s sitting on top of the oaken bar, her arms thrown up to the throng around her. “Kegs and _legs_ are open, my friends! On the house!”

Well, no wonder she wanted to take them here. She owns the place. She can set the prices however she likes. Still, an almost deafening shout from all their friends answers her.

“Oh,” Eliot says to himself. At Quentin’s questioning look, he explains, “Never been here before. This place is… _also_ a tavern.”

“You can just say it’s a whorehouse, Benedick, it’s not gonna make our ears red,” Margo says. She lets go and dives right in, snagging a cup right out of Josh’s hands, and then heading for the nearest, barely dressed woman on their right.

“Benedick!” Mike calls out. A pair of girls are keeping him company, one on each thigh. “Come get a lapful!”

“Nothing in my lap for them to sit on!” he jests, and Mike laughs, waving him off.

Quentin coughs, feeling his face go very red from _several_ memories at once. Eliot sees this, and slowly licks his lips, just to torment him.

Quentin’s blood is still up from the fight. It’s only been little more than a day since they fucked. He craves making up for all that lost time. His room isn’t too far off. They could slip away.

It’ll have to be later, though. Once everyone’s much deeper into their cups.

Tapping the air towards an empty table by the door, he tells Eliot to grab them a seat while he heads to the bar. Lots of hands reach out, to pat him on the back or shake his hand. As he snags a pitcher, Marina hops off of the bar and strides towards him. Barring his way, she tilts her head to stare him down.

“What’s it mean?”

“Mean?” he echoes, letting his eyebrows say more than he’s daring to.

“Being a ‘member of the family,’” Marina says. She adjusts her stance, her boots scuffing on the stone floor. “Does that mean free admission? A stake in future shows? What?”

Honestly, it can mean a whole bunch of things. This woman, who Quentin barely knows beyond Josh owing her money, might just be asking how all this will benefit her in the long run. Maybe she’s just asking if there’s a profit, or something of value, implied within the obscure word of “family.”

Or, she could just be a human being. Who wants what so many of them want. He can give her that something, he supposes. Help her understand this aspect of theatre a little better.

“How about a part in the show?” he says.

“A part?”

“We’d love to have you. There’s a small role I’m writing. A knight, Ora. You won’t have to do a ton of memorizing, this late in the game. But she’s got a vital part to play.”

“Fine,” she sighs. “I’ll be your knight.” Her face doesn’t give anything away. But Quentin has a feeling that, if she didn’t want to be Ora, she’d just tell him to fuck off.

He plays along, bowing his head in thanks. “Mind if I let the others know?”

She shrugs.

“Company!” Quentin shouts, raising the pitcher high. “Marina’s going to be our knight! She’s getting a part in the play!”

More whoops and cheers greet him, and Marina lets herself smile properly. Skye, Sunderland, and Lipson all run towards her, and Quentin pries himself out of the crowd to head back to his table with Eliot.

Margo’s joined him, and there’s a decanter of brandy between them. They’ve started what looks like a drinking game. Margo can afford the good stuff, not the cheap ale Marina’s pouring. Q settles at Eliot’s side, loving the warm weight of his shoulder as it brushes against his. Holding out his cup, Eliot happily gives him enough to sip on, or to join the game, if he wants.

Quentin looks at the sparkles of light, reflecting in the brandy. He’s been all over the place today. Convinced that the worst was guaranteed to happen, just because events out of his control decided to… well, happen. Like they always did.

He shakes his head, and throws the brandy back in one swallow.

The darkness he’s lived with for so long always resents, or glorifies, how he’s always being plunged into so many unknowns. Especially when all he’s done is try to keep his head above water.

But he can’t surrender to the melancholia. Or to letting things _stay_ unknown, he reminds himself.

If he surrenders… if he just lets things happen, and only turns inward, and punishes himself, and doesn’t act, and doesn’t try, then he loses the chance to make things better.

Today wasn’t exactly a victory, by most standards. But _good_ things happened. He’s paid some of his dues, but he’s also done some good. He hopes he can do more.

Before he can zero in on the rules of the drinking game, hoping to join in, Josh plops down on the bench beside Margo.

“A knight?” Josh says, jerking a thumb at Marina. He sounds very tired. The sum of what they’d lost today must still be weighing on him. But he’s not so depressed that he can’t make himself refuse the brandy Margo very generously pours him. He is her employer, after all.

“A knight,” Quentin confirms with a wry twist of his lips.

Josh shakes his head as Eliot and Margo slam their empty glasses down, and shriek at the burn. “So what _is_ the story, with the play?” Josh says with a quirk of his eyebrow. “It’s not pirates anymore. The magic, the mosaic, the two acts you handed me today? And a random knight, now? This is a comedy, right? How’s it gonna end?”

Quentin sees Eliot turning his head, just slightly. He’s not surprised. The two of them had been talking about that same question very recently, their conversation loaded with unspoken meaning.

He tries _not_ to look at Eliot when he plays it off as a joke. “God, I wish I knew.”

Josh snorts. “If you don’t, who does?”

“Yeah,” Margo says, pushing her hair out of her face. She shoots Quentin an accusing, teasing glare. Her cheeks are very rosy in the light of the chandeliers over their heads. “Come on, Q. It’s your play. You’re the one who can give us a happy ending.” She downs another glass. “So give us one! Or I’ll send you back to your wife in Stratford!”

Eliot drops his glass, and it hits the table, clattering, bouncing, until it rolls off and shatters to the floor.

He turns to Quentin. His eyes are terrified, confused. And because Q has no words, _never_ has any words, for this secret, they soon become desperate. Desperate for a denial that’s not coming.

Margo frowns, seemingly confused now too, until her eyes widen. “Wait. Did you–”

Eliot practically falls off the bench in his haste to stand. Quentin doesn’t have any air in his lungs, and his heart barely remembers how to beat, but he tries to get up too. Shaking his head, Eliot races for the door. He’s gone before Quentin can even get out his name.

There’s some kind of alarmed shouting, but it’s not coming from behind, from Josh or Margo trying to follow. It’s coming from the doorway as Quentin races to meet it. Trying to cross the threshold after Eliot, he comes face to face with Rafe instead, Abigail close at his side.

That miserable look on their faces oughta be causing him some concern. He should care why they look so scared, so defeated. But he can’t. He literally can't. He tries to excuse himself, but Rafe takes him by the shoulders. His face crumples, and Abigail looks no better.

“Mr. Coldwater…” she says, her lip trembling.

Rafe drags him back into the tavern, refusing to let go. “Mr. Hoberman. Ms. Hanson. Gentleman all! It is…it is a black day. News from upriver, from Deptford. Sebastian King is dead!”

Quentin can’t believe he’s standing. Isn’t he falling now, into a bottomless pit? It certainly feels like it. He’d gone down into Hell today. He’d been wrong, so wrong, to think he’d climbed back out.

No one in the tavern moves. All the songs, all the sloshing drinks, all the laughter, dies with the news.

“How?” Josh finally asks.

“Stabbed,” Rafe bleats. “Someone stabbed him, so the story goes.”

It’s too soon – after yesterday, after that blunder with Fen – for this to be coincidence. Nausea crawls up Quentin’s windpipe. He’s supposed to be chasing after his love. Explaining himself.

Fogg stands, raising a glass – filled with only water of course, since he’s working. Every thespian in the room joins him. “He was the first among us. A great light has gone out in this city.”

But Quentin doesn’t stay, to hear the echoes of Fogg’s toast. He’s stumbling out the door, tearing free of Rafe’s grip.

His grip was, unfortunately, the last thing keeping him tethered. Out in the London streets, he floats. He sinks. Air passes through his mouth, down his throat and into his lungs, but he drowns. There’s no sunlight, no heat, no sound. He drifts across the stones like a speck of dust through the air, borne along by the summer wind.

Someone who’s ruined so many lives doesn’t deserve a destination, or a resting place. He deserves all agency to be taken away. So, he takes himself to the one place where he can’t do harm to anyone, except himself.


	11. Act Four, Scene One

“Eliot? Sir? Eliot?” Todd says. He leads his gelding to stand beside Eliot’s mare, and puts his hand on Eliot’s arm. They’ve come to an unexpected stop at the side of the road.

The weather’s maliciously sunny. Not a cloud in the sky to stare at. So Eliot’s been staring at everything else. The woods offer as much promise for escape as riding had seemed to, back at the manor. That’s why they’ve caught his eye. He almost turned his horse off the road, letting her graze on grass, as the shade beneath the firs beckoned.

He’s been following his whims since last night. Gorging himself on anything that crosses his mind. He’d wanted to sleep, to dive into oblivion, when he got back from London. Then he woke up, and half the day was gone. He ordered plate after plate for lunch, almost to the point of being sick, and he’s smoked three pipes already. Todd was smart enough to refuse him alcohol, at least. Eliot could have ripped into him about that. He nearly did. But there’s enough cruelty in the world. He’s been its victim more than enough times to know. Adding to that cruelty would only prove he really was his father’s son.

Riding away from the house, entirely, felt like the next logical step after that.

Maybe in the woods, some fae will adopt him, leaving a changeling man in his place. A man whose heart was whole, and hopeful, and forgiving.

“Sorry, Todd,” Eliot says. He shakes himself out of it and tightens his grip on the reigns. “Got lost in my head for a moment. Let’s carry on.” He clicks his tongue, and they start forward.

“Yes, sir,” Todd says. He lets his steed fall a few lengths behind.

Eliot wishes he hadn’t. He wishes someone would talk to him, even though he doesn’t know what he'd say. Or what good talking would do. Talking wouldn’t change anything. Someone else’s pity won’t either. Still, he wants everything crawling around inside his chest to find its way out, somehow.

The choices before him are simple ones. He can stay here, and never go back. Maybe do something maudlin, like hosting his own funeral, before the wedding this weekend.

Or he can take a quick trip down the river, and get some answers. Maybe do something brave, like decide that the answers matter, and _won’t_ determine whether he stays with the company until Opening Day.

There’s another rider coming up the path behind them. He ought to straighten his spine, keep up appearances.

“My lord Eliot!” Fen’s voice calls out.

It’s a small country. With smaller countrysides. There’s only so many roads nobles can traverse freely around here. Especially alone.

Biting the side of his cheek, Eliot slouches. He may not want to be cruel today, but he'll certainly be as spiteful as he damn well pleases. Now that all their courtly pomp and peacocking is finished, he can go right back to treating her with the barest modicum of tolerance.

His intended draws abreast of them. The sun might as well be shining out his horse’s ass, for all the smiles she’s giving him.

Church bells ring faintly down the road. She turns to look at the sound. “Calling the faithful to worship,” she notes. The excessive cheer practically drips from her words. “Is that where you’re headed?”

It’s fucking _Tuesday_ , he wants to snarl. She must not have been to church in ages. Still, might as well keep up the pretense, in case he needs to use it when…

When….

“That’s where I’m headed,” he confirms breezily. Not being subtle about it, he nudges his horse to go faster. “Joining us, my lady?”

She keeps pace with him, although there’s an exaggerated pout to her lips. “If you don’t think I’ll be intruding?”

She will.

“Not at _all_.”

The church is in the opposite direction of the nearest wharf anyway. If Eliot even gets _near_ a dock, he doesn’t know whether he’ll be able to resist. Because he _does_ know there’s enough coin in his purse to charter a boat. No matter whether he’s disguised as Benedick or no.

“Well, I suppose if you’re in mourning, I’d better make sure you keep a hold of yourself, among the church folk,” she sighs. “Can’t have you making a scene like the other day. I’ll admit, I never met the man except once. At your house, I think it was?”

He tugs the reigns up. “Mourning?” He forces his mouth into a skeptical smirk. “Who’s dead?”

Through the alley of trees on both sides, a wind from the east sweeps down the road. It billows Fen’s silky, burgundy skirts, puffing up her figure a little. She brings her hand up to her mouth. Her big blue eyes go wide, until she swallows, shaking her head and closing them. “Oh. Oh dear. God, I didn’t think _I’d_ be the one to tell you. A great loss to playwriting. And to dancing.”

Playwriting? Who did Fen… know….

No.

 _No_.

She’s lying. She’s _lying_.

But she wouldn’t bring it up… unless she knew it would hurt him.

“He. He’s dead?” Eliot says. He must not scream. He cannot. But one is building inside him anyway.

“Killed last night,” she confirms. “Stabbed, so I heard.” She starts her horse forward. “Let’s go to church then. We’ll say a prayer for his soul, wherever it wound up. That’d be nice, I think.”

The world is tilting. The wind is knocking him over. He’s falling.

Todd catches him, making sure he doesn’t slip out of the saddle. “Eliot. _Eliot_. You can’t.”

But, can’t Todd see what’s happening? Eliot’s being torn to pieces. Can’t he see that the only thing to do is let it happen?

Todd eyes the figure in front of them. “Later,” he cautions. “Right now? Show her how strong you are. How strong you’ve always been. She doesn’t get to break you.”

“Th-thank you, Todd.”

No comfort waits for him when they reach the churchyard. It’s an overgrown place. Wilting pink rose bushes climb the low stone walls. The building itself was cut from the same quarry: a dull, charcoal grey slate that’s been equally baking and drowning in England’s weather for centuries. A simpering friar meets them when they cross the threshold. Fen’s only too happy to marginally perturb the clergyman: oh yes, they’re not married, just affianced, and travelling without a chaperone. Oh no, this isn’t the chapel they had in mind for the ceremony, but thank you for asking, Brother.

Eliot makes a point to stay as far from walking down the aisle as possible. Hell, he makes it a point to not stay inside the church itself for very long. When Fen tries to ensnare him into a tour of the tombs, he doesn’t have to feign the dizzy spell that excuses him. He just stops keeping all his feelings at bay. Lets them consume him.

When he mounts back up, Todd has to tie Eliot’s reigns to his saddle, so he can lead him along. They make it back to the manor, more or less in one piece, handing off their reigns to a groom. But Eliot thinks of Quentin, just yesterday. Wrapped in his arms, moaning about a prison-like house.

Eliot can’t even make it past the entrance hall.

Using a cornerstone to keep himself upright, he says, “Todd? Get. Get Benedick for me, would you?”

The butler looks around the empty hall. There’s a cloakroom off the side passage. “Can you make it in there?” he points.

Eliot nods.

“I’ll be right back. Call if you need me; I’ll come running.”

He nods again. But, the thing is, being left all alone like this? That may be the worse idea he’s had today. Afraid that someone might hear him weeping, his mind tries to shy away from it all. It sends him into a tailspin of practicalities. Where is… the body? Does Margo know? Was she there? What’s going to happen to the play? Will there be a funeral? Will Eliot have to arrange it? Or _stop_ himself from arranging it, for fear of revealing who they are – _were_ , to each other?

Or will _she_ be there? The wife, whoever she is. Will she arrange the whole thing? Will Eliot have to stand on the sidelines, as the casket is lowered into the earth? Not allowed to weep, sob, or tear his hair.

After all, only the true widow gets to claim that right.

His eyes swim when Todd softly knocks on the cloakroom door. His friend sets the clothes on a chair, and leaves him to change.

The tears flow so gently, down his face. They refuse to stop, even as he finishes dressing, tells Todd he’s going into the city alone, and climbs into a little skip at the dock. Eliot earns an odd look from the boatman, but he feels no need to wipe his eyes.

As The Whitespire rises up before him, it’s only thoughts of Margo that convince him to pull some of his pieces together. She’ll… fill in some of the gaps. Some of _his_ gaps.

When he walks in, the company is in the middle of rehearsal. Their words aren’t familiar to him, even though they’re so, _so_ familiar. He drags his heels over to the arch, to look out at the house. Margo’s at center stage, battle axes gripped in both hands. Every woman in the cast darts around her, draped in blood-red swathes of fabric. And they all sing, together:

_The fraud of men was ever so,  
_ _Since summer first was leafy.  
_ _Then sigh not so, don’t let them go,  
_ _Don’t be you blithe and bonny,  
_ _Converting all your sounds of woe  
_ _Into war cries upon he._

This must be one of the scenes that _he_ … that Josh received, yesterday. The end of Act Three, maybe, or the middle of Act Four. A chance for Janet to unleash herself. Just what Margo’s been waiting for. Although he can’t quite make the leap – from her saving Brian and Nigel, to this moment.

He’ll… he’ll have to read how it happens, then. After.

The red women fly off stage. Mike enters, saying nothing. There’s a serene look on his face.

“I know thou art only a mere vision,” Margo says. Her words are so quiet. Walking over to one of the pillars, she lays the axes aside, and then crosses to Mike. With intense care, she cradles Mike’s face in her hands. “Be that as it may, I do miss thee. So much. And I swear to thee… I shall get thee back.”

Without a word, Mike turns, and exits the stage.

And Eliot feels the tears start in his eyes again. This is _her_ Act Two, Scene Three, isn’t it.

After Margo gets her weapons, she makes for the same archway Eliot’s standing in. She blinks in surprise when she sees him there. Her grip on the axes slips.

He’d expected her to keep up appearances. To shout and belittle him, as she always did. He hadn’t expected her to look so sorry. That makes everything infinitely worse.

“Everyone! Take a break!” she calls out.

The company shouts their thanks, and Margo brushes by him. He knows he’s expected to follow. But his gaze snags on the trapdoor. His nose fills with the smell of Quentin’s hair. That musky sweat beneath the strands, after a long night of writing near a flame. It had almost overcome him, that smell, as they’d embraced beneath those boards.

“You look like shit,” Margo remarks as she comes back. “You get home okay?”

Every single thing he could say sticks in his throat like he's swallowed hot coals.

She sighs. “Look, I’ll just come out and say it. Last night was on me, alright? I didn’t know he hadn’t said anything about…. Well, anyway, no matter how things went down, it wasn’t my place to say it in the first place.”

Sniffing, he shakes his head and holds himself. He doesn’t hold any grudges about last night. Not right now. He hopes she knows that.

She places a hand on his arm. Even that light pressure feels like too much weight.

“Hey,” she says softly. He doesn’t turn. Almost mirroring what she’d done with Mike a moment ago, she puts one hand on his cheek, and tilts his head to look at her.

All this kindness. Treating him with such care. It only confirms how terrible things really are. How the world really has ended. Margo being _soft_ feels like Hell really is empty, and all the devils are here.

“Have you seen him? Since?” she says.

Finally, some words jostle loose, and they manage to tumble out of his mouth. “I don’t know where he is. Where… where is he? Was anyone… with him? Was he alone… when…?”

The corner of her mouth tenses. “I’d guess his apartment. If not there, maybe a church.”

“His apartment?” Eliot’s voice breaks. “He was just left there?”

Finally, a little iron returns to her voice. “I’ve kinda had a theater to run without him, you dick. Especially with the lead _and_ the author missing in action. We had to clean up from the brawl yesterday, and figure what we could run without you.” Eliot goes to say more, but she cuts him off, dropping her hand from his face. “If you’re so worried about him being alone, you go see him. And then bring him back here.”

“What?!”

She grabs his arm, dragging him towards the back door. Skye’s leaving, and they catch the door with her on the way out. She lights up when she sees that Eliot’s arrived, only for her face to immediately change, when she sees the look on Margo’s. Skye scurries out into the street, heading for a stall. She gets out of the way just in time for Eliot to swing out of Margo’s grip.

“You can’t ask me to–”

“Fuck off,” Margo growls. “ _How_ have you not learned this already? The play comes first.”

“Yeah, but not–”

“Talk to him!” The shout gets a few stares from people on the street. Eliot can’t tell whose scrutiny makes him squirm more. “I don’t expect you to be a saint about it. I don’t expect you to work everything out. But try, Benedick! Then get your ass back here, and play your part! The cast can’t do much when the lead is parading around, being as late as he pleases, and deciding his precious _feelings_ are more important than all our work!”

With a hard shove, she sends him down the street, shouting out Quentin’s address a few blocks over. She slams the back door before he can get out so much as a squawk of protest.

Eliot knows Margo projects heartlessness sometimes. He’d never expected it ran this deep. She really expects him to… to…

The cobblestones beneath his feet span both directions. All the way down to the wharf… or all the way up towards the way to… where Quentin may lie waiting for him.

 _Run. Run now_ , he tells himself. _Leave all this stupidity and tragedy behind forever._

He shakes his head.

As opposed to the stupidity and tragedy waiting back at the manor?

There is no lesser-of-two-heartbreaks here. This whole misadventure started as an escape. From his father, his mother. From his fucking _grooming_ , as fucking breeding stock.

To flee from that selfsame escape would be an insult. A disgrace, on a universal level.

If it weren’t for him, Quentin might never’ve been murdered by Fen’s hired killer. He might’ve gone on to write a hundred more plays and sonnets. Might’ve been hailed all over London, all over the world, for the genius he is – _was_.

Or he could have gone back to his wife, at some point. Back to an idyllic, perfect life in a small town. And been happy.

Eliot’ll never know. That’s the crux of it all. Because in the end, Eliot was the one who made the selfish choice to overturn Quentin’s whole life. Now he has to live with it. He’s going to confront himself with the consequences of his actions.

As he starts up the street, every step is merciless on his imagination. He heads past the blacksmith, the tanner, the apothecary, the butcher, and it feels like any and every horrible sight will greet him when he arrives. Blood. A bloated corpse. Foul stenches heavy in the air. The remnants of his unfinished work on his desk.

Maybe someone brought Quentin back there, while he was still alive. It would’ve been just like Q, to insist the wound wasn’t too much. To ask someone to just bring him back home, so he can write one last goodbye, before the life quietly slipped out of him, not a bother to anyone.

For a dead man’s final resting place, the building is so unassuming. It could fade into the ether, and no one would know. Eliot climbs the old, creaking stairs with an infectious trepidation. In the hallway, his mind screams at him to run again. To beg someone for help, so he doesn’t have to face this alone.

Quentin’s door is ajar. Eliot’s nose hasn’t been hit with any rot or decay yet. But the silence inside might as well be that of a crypt.

His fingers hesitate a dozen times, but he finally pulls the door wider, and steps into the gloom.

It’s such an empty little loft. A few cupboards, an empty chamber pot, a wash basin next to the window, and a broom leaning against the wall. The only objects that seem to be – to _have been_ , handled with care, are a single shelf of worn books, and the desk. Although, regarding the desk, “care” is a bit of an understatement. Expectedly, every inch is covered with ink bottles, quills, and parchment, both crumpled and unfurled.

There is a… a body. Curled on his – on _its_ side towards the wall.

Oh God. He did die alone.

If. If Eliot hadn’t run away. Hadn’t been such an inconsiderate, beastly, fucked-up cowardly slug of a man. If he had just _stayed_. No one would have gotten near him. Eliot would have _died_ protecting him.

And then Eliot almost dies, right then and there. The body _twitches_. Eliot’s heart might have survived that – bodies do certain things, after death – if it hadn’t then decided to _turn over_. And look right at him. And blink in surprise.

Eliot stumbles backward. His hip jars the open door into swinging shut. The noise makes Quentin flinch. His very alive, though dulled, chocolate-brown eyes blink several more times, before he groggily pushes himself up. Eliot’s breathing turns ragged. A stream of soft whines leave him, as he backs up against the door, and falls to the ground.

There’s every chance he’s facing a ghost. Or some kind of spirit possession. Or a dream.

And this only starts to seem more and more likely, as Quentin falls out of bed, gets trapped in the sheets, and starts shuffling towards him on his knees anyway, saying “Eliot?” in a cracked, haunted voice.

Well, Eliot’s never had good survival instincts anyway. Instead of the sight paralyzing him, he crawls forward too. They meet in the middle, a mess of limbs and rough touches, grabbing any part of each other they can get their hands on.

“You’re here,” Quentin breathes.

Eliot says the same without words. He presses his fingers all over his chest and belly, thumbing the veins in his neck, checking for knife wounds everywhere. Not a scratch. Q is alive. Quentin Coldwater is _alive_.

He bursts into tears. Full on sobs. He presses his face into the skin of his neck, plants his hand over his heart, as if to press through the skin entirely. He can feel every beat, every pulse of his heart. Drops of wetness, from Quentin’s cheek, fall on the back of his neck, sending chills through his nerves. Locks of his hair tickle Eliot’s forehead.

Who comforts who more? Who holds the other tighter? For the life of him, he can’t say.

“I thought I’d never see you again,” Quentin gasps. When Eliot doesn’t reply, squeezing tighter, Q tries to adjust them, and only ends up falling on his ass. It jostles their tangled limbs, and slightly knocks Eliot out of his grip. “Sorry, sorry!”

It’s enough to stop the spiral. For Eliot to start talking. Haltingly, in between bursts of breath, he sobs, “I thought you were dead. Fen, she, she hinted that… she’d – that a playwright was stabbed. One I knew. And you were the only one who she’s even been close to, and…”

The pulse under Eliot’s hand stutters. Quentin lets out a long, slow, shaky breath. A single, abrupt blast of air from his nose follows. He shakes his head. “It was all over the city last night, I guess,” Quentin reports in a low voice. “Just after you… um, left, Rafe burst in and told the company _Sebastian King_ had been stabbed.”

Eliot shudders. The news is a loss; he can’t deny that. He’d never met King. Admired him, sure. He was one of the greatest living playwrights. But the fact remains, if Eliot had to choose? He knows, down to the depths of his soul, which of them he’d rather was alive. Always.

Q pulls back. The calluses on his hands snag across Eliot’s, as he gently frees himself. With the utmost tenderness, he brushes Eliot’s tears away. “I was running after you, to – so we could talk. About…” Eliot freezes, awash in the memory, so Quentin barrels along around it, to explain himself. “I’m sorry I didn’t go after you. I’m sorry I wasn’t there, to prove what Fen said wasn’t true. But when I heard about Seb, I was convinced his – that – that he was… that _I’d_ killed him.”

Seeing Eliot’s alarmed frown, Quentin explains how he’d used the other playwright’s name, when Fen asked him for one, during the masked ball. And then, with a little more hesitation, he describes what happened at Greenwich.

“So then she… she decided to have ‘you’ killed,” Eliot says.

“That’s the thing. I don’t know. If she hired someone, or if things just played out this way on their own.”

“What d’you mean?”

Quentin clambers to his feet, and goes back to his bed. He tosses the blankets and pillow around on his mattress. His search yields a piece of paper, one he must’ve fallen asleep with.

When Eliot stands to take it, his eyes trace over unfamiliar handwriting. The curves and sharp slants of these letters are almost better than a professional scribe’s. There are a few mistakes, though, suggesting it’s an original:

_My dear friend,_

_It appears as though I’ve just missed you. A shame. I had hoped to bid you a proper_ ~~_fa_~~ _goodbye, but I’m afraid I cannot wait for your return. I am equally sorry to say: this will be the last ~~l~~_ ~~ _ett_~~ _words exchanged between us._

 _Plans I’ve long waited to put in motion are finally ready. I mentioned something of this to you, once. You’ll recall it was during that last brandy we shared? I cannot say more, but rest assured: any rumors you may hear about me tomorrow? Have been set in motion by myself, and one or two close confidants. My life, as I know it, is over. A new one awaits_ ~~_in_~~ _on a distant shore._

 _Actually, I believe I was mistaken, just now. These are_ _not_ _our last words. I’ll look for your next folio anon. Before you balk, know that I have complete faith in you, Q, and always will. Ideas defy prediction. If they’re not here now, they will come. The readiness is all._

_May you find the same happiness I have._

_Faithfully,_

_S_

“I think he must’ve left it during the fight with Kady,” Quentin says, as he takes it back. “It was pinned to my door, when I got back here last night. She said she only showed up at the theater because of what he’d said to her.”

Eliot’s face contorts in anger. “So he starts rumors about his own death, _and_ sent her after you?”

“No, that’s not…. He wouldn’t do that. But, shit, maybe all my little mistakes meant he _had_ to disappear now. If he knew someone was after him, because of what _I_ did…” Pausing, Q gnaws at his top lip. “In any case, I’ll never know if he makes it. If he’ll even make it out of England. But I hope he does. He deserves it. And… and I’m gonna miss him. So much.”

Eliot shifts back on his heels, sighing in relief.

Then something occurs to him, and he turns his eyes out the window, so Quentin can’t see them. “I didn’t realize you knew him that well. He risked trying to say goodbye to you, when he was supposed to disappear.”

“We didn’t always walk in the same circles,” Quentin shrugs. “But he always went out of his way for me, when he didn’t owe me anything. I always looked up to him. Some pieces of him wound up in _Errors,_ and _Two Kings_. And he even helped me start this one. Seb came up with Nigel right on the spot. That was the same day you auditioned, actually.”

Q smiles, an expression both very fond and very sad.

Something green and snakelike coils in Eliot’s belly at the sight.

Quentin must see the look on his face, even if it’s tilted away. “What?”

Eliot shakes his head. The coils are wrapping tighter around his guts. Poison’s building up in his mouth.

“El?”

The nickname shouldn’t set him off. Or maybe it should. It’s hard to say what the right thing to do here is. He’s never been one to do the right thing anyway. Why start now?

“How close were the two of you?”

“We were friends.” Then Quentin’s eyes widen, and his jaw hardens. “Not like that. He has someone else.”

Eliot stops looking at the window. He makes sure his eyes are as empty as he can make them, when he turns his head back around. “How would I know?” he says. “I only just found out about your relationship with him.”

“Sorry I didn’t think to mention him to you.”

“You had plenty of time.”

“I wasn’t really thinking about him _at_ the time. Beyond how I was possibly going to get him _killed_ , and that I had no idea how to _fix_ it.”

That poison’s turning into a sharp, almost chemical burn in Eliot’s chest. He doesn’t want to talk about King anymore. But there are other words he’s not ready to say. Specters he’s not ready to summon. “Look, I get it,” he says with a flick of his wrist, “I’m no stranger to these things. Plenty of my previous _acquaintances_ had certain ‘people’ in their lives they didn’t mention. It’s a standard of the lifestyle. That keeps us all safe, right?”

“What’s your point?” Quentin bites out.

If he’s being willfully obtuse about this, Eliot’s about to punch a hole in the floor. Fine then. He smiles, like he’s looking at a simpleton. “That was the point of the play, right? It’s okay if it was. I get it. King gave you all the encouragement you needed. To live out some kind of fantasy. Pretending certain bonds were there, while others weren’t.”

Snarling, Quentin throws his hands up into the air. “Oh, like the way you invented Benedick fucking Johnson?” Eliot sneers at the accusation, but Quentin presses the advantage. “Taking on the, the social stigma? That other, _real_ people have to face, their whole lives, just so you get to pretend. To escape _your_ bonds.”

“Clearly,” Eliot says, smiling coldly, not giving Q the satisfaction. 

“No. Not clearly. Come on, you know it’s not like that.”

“Like I said, I get it. I’ll admit, I was mistaken before, to think of any of this as more than a… beautiful lie. A play within a play! So I’ve just gotta make sure I adjust my expectations, going forward. Make sure I play _my_ part better, after this. That’s what you want, right?”

He said it to try to get an even bigger reaction. So he could retaliate. Wound further. Injure more. He doesn’t expect Q to go silent. To let that silence go on, and on.

Minutes pass, as he just looks at him, from head to toe.

“A lie?” Q asks finally. It’s almost a whisper.

Eliot licks his lips. He lets the façade fall, just a little. “Wasn’t it?”

Q’s chest spasms, and he blinks rapidly. “If that’s what you really think, then I… fuck, I really failed you, huh?” He offers a wet, humorless, devastated smile. But it’s not like the one he’d shown when thinking of King. With this one, it’s as if he _had_ been stabbed. Only now the assailant is–

“I let this whole part of me go unsaid for so long,” Quentin says, looking at his fingers. He flexes them, almost curiously, as fresh tears splash down into his palms. “You. Margo. Everyone’s afraid of talking about it. Especially me. And that’s hurt you. And that’s made you think that I love someone else more than I love you.”

Um.

Oh.

Um.

 _SHIT_.

“Wait–”

Quentin looks him straight in the eye. His eyes are shining, red, and the tears reflect the darkest circles under them. “My wife’s name is Arielle. She’s still back in Stratford-on-Avon, like Margo said.”

“Sure,” Eliot swallows. “But, hold on–”

“I haven’t seen her. Written to her. Touched her. Since I left. We’re separated. In, uh, every possible way, except by law. King Henry came up with divorce, but, you know, it takes a while for those things to, uh, actually catch on, in smaller villages.”

The hissing snake inside him starts to shrivel and die at these words. Thank fuck. He can’t let it feed on anything else. To do any more damage. He still has to ask, about _those_ words. The ones Quentin just burst out with. Again. Hearing dramatic declarations and lofty philosophies in a rowboat is one thing. That was all said _before_ their relationship started. When the pining had been at its peak.

Not that the pining had actually stopped….

All the same, what he’s just heard? The way it came out? They can’t let that fall to the wayside. Can’t brush past it with kisses, or with chases across a moonlit lawn.

But first, he needs to let _this_ story unfold. It’s not his to demand. It never was.

After a respectful moment, he nods and says, softly, “Tell me about her?”

“She’s… uh,” Quentin’s voice is thick and heavy in his throat. “Smart. Always beat my dad at cards. And gentle, and strong. She tends the orchards, on the far side of town. Knows what each tree needs. Like she, uh, knew the language of plants before the queen’s English or something. A nymph in disguise.”

Not a single smile follows any of this. It’s jarring, how poetic it all sounds. Like Quentin can’t help it. Like he’s got this little way of narrating the people in his life, always going on in the back of his head. Trying to find the best way to describe them, changing the verbiage, never quite landing on the right permutation of words.

“We met in the village,” Quentin continues. Now that the dam’s broken, he’s lost to the current. “I was reading. And she came up to me. Long, fiery hair, bright eyes, a clever smile. And my nose stayed buried in my book. No matter how many times she tried to get something out of me. I think it finally occurred to me to just flat out ask her if she was selling me something. And I think she said, something like, ‘oh, just the fruits of my labor. And I looked up and she stuffed a plum in my face.”

Despite everything, Eliot huffs. Almost smiles.

But he’s also ready to ask him to forget all this. To promise Q he’ll never bring any of it up again. To swear he doesn’t need to know anymore. Hurting Q like this feels like it was entirely his doing. Although he knows, too, that there’s nothing he can really do except listen. This is an old hurt, barely healed.

 _That was supposed to be my job_ , he thinks. _To heal him._ He’d promised Margo. _He’s got me, now;_ that’s what he’d said to himself. Look at how well he’s kept that vow. Eliot wants to get on his knees right now, hug Quentin across his middle, press kisses to the softest parts of him in apology.

“We… we were happy.”

Yeah. That’s the rub, isn’t it? Were.

Dread flows into the empty space left by Eliot’s jealousy. He’s heard Quentin tell other sections of his story. The good and the bad. And now they’ve finally reached the worst; Eliot can tell. He knows what Quentin looks like, when he’s swimming in happiness. How the sun pales in comparison to his warm, breathtaking smile, when it stretches from ear to ear. How the birds never sounded their songs better than Quentin’s ringing laughter.

That his happiness stopped, no matter how long ago, feels _wrong_. Cosmically, biblically wrong. 

“And. Our son. T – T – Teddy–” Quentin chokes out his name between gasps, like it’s the heaviest burden, suddenly lifted.

Eliot’s stomach drops.

“God, he… he was the answer. All my questions were over. My darkness never goes away, you know that, but the first time I held him in my arms? Everything inside me knew, instantly, why I was put on this earth. Nothing else was more important than him. Nothing.”

“You named him after your dad,” Eliot says.

Quentin nods. His mouth jerks, not sure what to do with itself. He briefly flashes Eliot an appreciative look, for remembering. “I made Fillory for him, too.”

A deep sense of awe tumbles through Eliot’s ribcage. Every single play. All the characters, their lines. The climaxes and morals and themes. Shaped, refined, brought into existence, because of this little boy. _Quentin’s son_. The realization is akin to standing among those wild tors and cliffs, out in the moors to the north, near Scotland. Faced with something vast, endless, incomprehensible. Something that affirms just how tiny your life is, and always was, in comparison.

Eliot reaches out. Fits his hand across Quentin’s. Clammy sweat sticks to his skin. Turning it over, he slides their palms together, touching at every point, before he adjusts, just a little, and slips his fingers between the gaps. After a moment, Quentin curls his fingers in return.

“This is what you meant, that night on the wall. This’s the long answer,” Eliot says.

“I’d play with him in the garden," Quentin murmurs. “We were talking animals, and centaurs, and Questing Beasts. We were kings, and knights, and wizards. We’d save the day. Hunt for magic treasure. Solve mysteries.” He smiles. His voice is wry, full of affection.

It takes a while for Eliot to recognize it. That kind of loving, rueful tone that only a parent – a truly _good_ parent – uses. A glow of magic, in the gloom.

“There was always more to imagine, to explore. Arielle had to drag us _both_ in to dinner at night, we got so caught up in it all. He was loud and thoughtful and curious and brave. He grew so big. I was cradling him one day, and then, hugging him under my ribcage the next. He, he went to school and he – ha! – he started arguing with me. About why things are spelled one way, but said another. And I don’t know where the _fuck_ his head for numbers came from. But he figured out sums I’d never be able to solve. And he… he _sang_. All the time. Out of nowhere, all these little songs.”

“Were they any good?”

“Terrible,” sniffs Quentin. He uses his free hand to rub his forehead. “Never rhymed. No beat. Melody all over the place.”

“But they’re his,” Eliot notes, reading the look on his face. “And that makes them wonderful.” He pauses, fearing his next question might make things better, or worse. “Have you heard anything about how he’s doing? Since you left?”

A board on the floor creaks as Quentin shifts away. All this talking seems to have drained him, suddenly. He sways on his feet like a solider. One who should’ve been relieved of duty a long, long time ago. “We, uh. I, uh. We. Lost him. He… he was… almost twelve when he… when he… died.”

A sharp spike of pain lances through Eliot’s heart, his mind, everything. He knows there aren’t even words. There will never be any right words.

The quiet goes on and on. That metaphysical moorland countryside has become an endless abyss full of monsters. Finally, Eliot lands on something he can do. He tightens his grip. “Here,” he says. He leads him over to the mattress, and encourages him to sit. Quentin doesn’t protest. At least he has the wits to keep their hands locked together.

Eliot feels like he hasn’t earned the right to do this, but he sits down beside him. And, hoping this makes up for what he’s said today, just a little, he slides his hand across his back and pulls him in. Q’s head falls onto Eliot’s chest, and he cradles it, rubbing his back. The edges of Eliot’s shirt ruffle as Quentin breathes him in, and breathes out again.

There’s so much he can ask. And plenty he doesn’t know whether he should. This isn’t Eliot’s story. He’s just the one who insisted on knowing it.

His mind balks at that thought, when it happens. Knowing the story isn’t some punishment, like “be careful what you wish for.” Nor is it a prize. It’s not about him at all, he remembers again. He’s known that, from the beginning. He really has. The selfish asshole he’d been moments ago was a product of… a lot of outside factors. But all of that has fallen away, with Quentin here in his arms. It’s an honor, to be trusted with Quentin’s story. There’s nothing more to it. To know of his son, of the weight he’s never stopped carrying, for years. To be one of the only people to know of this bright spark that was snuffed out so cruelly before his time.

“I’m so, so sorry,” he whispers. “I’m… _eternally_ sorry.”

Quentin nods. “He’d. He’d’ve wanted to meet you. So bad. You an’ him. Could’ve chatted for hours. You both know how to. Make people feel special. Not alone.”

“I know there’s not, but is there anything I can do? Right now?”

He feels some brushing blinks against his chest. Wetness soaks through his shirt. Quentin crawls entirely into his lap. His arms are shaking, but he does his best to enclose him with every ounce of care and safety and tenderness he can.

“Let me take his place,” Quentin begs. “Just let him be here. Please. Please, God. Please. _Pleeease._ Let me take his place.”

Eyes swimming, heart in pieces, Eliot can do nothing except make nearly the same prayer. That Teddy was alive. Not in exchange for Quentin. Just. Here. Here to live.

“It’s been years, El.” His sobs grow and ebb like the tide. “Arielle and I… we couldn’t… without him we… so I left. And came here, and since I told Margo, I, I haven’t fucking even _said his name_. I c-can’t think of him without…. But… you…”

Eliot puts his hand behind his head again. His hair drapes over his knuckles, as he pulls him close, presses as much of them together as he can. “It’s okay, it’s okay, god, I’m sorry about what I said, don’t worry about–”

“I want you to know – you _have_ to know – _you_ make me feel like I can live again. That I’m allowed to. All the time. Every second.”

Every inch of Eliot’s skin feels like shattered glass. One touch, one word, and he’ll disintegrate.

“And I shouldn’t. I shouldn’t be happy or hopeful or safe or cherished, but I am. You make me–”

“I feel that way too.” All his usual defenses are trying to strangle him. He knows they shouldn’t be saying any of this. They should be trying to sever everything that ties them to each other, bit by bit. So that the end of the week doesn’t devastate them beyond repair. But everything he confesses feels like each crack of shattered glass is starting to heal, to mend. He pulls back, just enough, to raise Quentin’s chin, so he can bend down and press their foreheads together. He squeezes his eyes shut. “I wasn’t _living_ , until I heard your words. And even then, I wasn’t doing anything except surviving. Then you asked me to be a part of all this. Ran after me, and showed me you wanted me in your life, and I, I owe you everything.” He kisses Quentin’s forehead hard, overcome. Like if he presses his lips there long enough, their imprint will stay with him forever.

Quentin grabs the lapels of his jacket, gripping them with more force than he ever knew he could muster. “You can’t marry Fen. Don’t. Please, don’t. _Please_.”

Eliot doesn’t answer. Sure, he’s as clever as they come. But nothing he tries to plan out in his head sounds just dangerous enough to try. There’s too much of a chance one or both of them would wind up dead.

 _…think that I love someone else more than I love you_.

The moment to return those words has passed a dozen times already. They’re racing through his veins. Looking for any opening he’ll give them.

Quentin tries to get him to look at him. “What if we–”

“The queen’s permission isn’t something you throw back in her face,” Eliot says, hammering his feelings down, plunging the molten metal of his soul into icy water. “As much as we pray she’d be forgiving, it could also be seen as defiance. And that’s arrestable, bare minimum. Add that to all the reasons I already told you, and–”

“Don’t make me remember.”

“I have to.” His voice breaks. “We can’t spend what time we have left pretending–”

“Pretending what?! That I–”

“No!” Eliot reassures. “Not that. Just…we can’t pretend that I don’t have to _leave you_. And go off to some other world, and play at being a husband and everything that goes with it. If we don’t keep that in mind, we’ll ruin each other.”

Quentin’s jaw ticks, but he can’t deny the truth. He stands, extricating himself from Eliot’s embrace, and goes over to the window, leaning against the panes as he tries to get his breathing under control. Maybe he hates Eliot. Really, properly this time. For not trying harder. For never coming up with anything to give them hope, after he's just shared the truth about his _son_.

As Q tries to get a hold of himself, the sounds of the street rise up around them. It’s so faint here. It’s just loud enough to remind you that the world doesn’t stop spinning outside. But not to the point where that reminder interrupts everything else inside.

“Everything that goes with being a husband… isn’t so bad,” Quentin forces out, sometime later. Trying, barely, to be optimistic.

“It is when Fen’s the wife and my father’s the main beneficiary.”

“Beneficiary?”

Now that Eliot knows about Teddy, this part of his prison sentence has become harder to think about – to even _mention_ – than it’s ever been before.

Q gets there first. “’A noble grandson,’” he remembers. “I heard the servants talking at the ball.” He turns, crossing his arms. The window casts him into shadow. “You ever think about... what that’d be like?”

“No,” Eliot lies, looking down. “Because if I did, that’d make watching my father take him, hire all sorts of people to raise him instead of me, mold him into…. Anyway, that'd be...” He sighs. “Look, you don’t have to m–”

There’s a stomping up the stairs. Eliot climbs to his feet, his eyes wide, but Quentin waves him down. Swallowing his frustration, allowing only exhaustion, he goes over to the door, opening it to see Josh about to knock. He must’ve recognized the footfalls.

“What is it?” Quentin asks.

Josh wipes the surprise off his face. “Came to get you guys. I was the only one Margo could spare, so,” he offers a bemused shrug, “figured you might’ve gotten held up talking about the show. You know, how it’s going to _end_. ‘Cause we _still_ need Act Five. With opening being _days away_.”

“Yeah,” Quentin says. Not looking at Eliot, he goes over to his desk. There’s one stack on it that actually looks organized. “I finished it last night.”

Eliot’s eyebrows draw together, and his jaw goes slack.

“Shit, really?!” Josh’s face is the picture of relief. “Oh, thank fuck.”

He holds open the door for Quentin graciously, making room so he can leave. Eliot forces himself to rise, when Q turns to see if he’s coming along. His face is clouded now, still red and puffy, but he’s keeping itself together for the sake of appearances. Eliot feels like he's been gutted.

When they get back to The Whitespire, after a charged, silent march through the streets, Josh announces they have Act Five. The whole company cheers, stopping rehearsals and prop checks and costume fittings, to come out of the woodwork. They sit at the edges of the stage, either dangling their legs over the side, or flat out laying on their bellies in interest. Quentin hands the pages over to Sunderland, but asks her to stay before she can go make copies.

Margo surveys them, as she comes to stand downstage center. She raises her eyebrows at Eliot, putting one hands on her hip. He’s starting to think he’s learning that unspoken language she has with Q; he can pretty much read the question in her face.

How to answer it, though, is not in his vocabulary at the moment. He's probably going to start crying again, if he opens his mouth so much as an inch.

“Thank you, everyone. For being so patient with me. With all this,” Quentin says. His eyes aren’t on the ground, though. They’re looking up at the sky. “We don’t have a lot of time, so you won’t have to wait to read about it. I’ll just tell you.”

It’s as if there are weights strapped to Eliot’s limbs. To his lungs. To his heart. He’s not sure whether he should go join his friends on the stage, much less whether he can. Quentin had said before: he’s not sure whether the play is a comedy any more. After all the stories he’s heard today, Eliot doesn’t know if he can stand knowing the end.

“So Brian, knowing he and Nigel can’t unite their kingdoms, volunteers to stay in the Castle at the End of the World. Nigel tries to stop him. Tries to kill the Monster that Brian’s supposed to guard. One last act, in honor of their bond. But the Monster takes Nigel’s body, and possesses him instead. That’s the end of Act Three. The Monster drags Brian all over the earth, wreaking havoc on Fillory. Janet’s appointed High King in Nigel’s place, until she willfully banishes herself, to get the magic to save him. That’s Act Four.”

“So does she? Save him?” Eliot calls out.

Quentin doesn’t turn to look at him.

Eliot doesn’t care about the looks he gets from the company. Some are genuinely curious about the answer too; glad he was brave enough to ask, when they weren’t. Others scrutinize him, assuming that maybe, as the lead, he’s concerned about whether he gets his heroic ending after all.

None of that matters. He takes it back; he has to know. Despite all his fears, and reservations, there has to be a silver lining here. He prays that Quentin’s found one in fiction, even as the facts of their undeniable reality settled into place last night.

“She does,” Quentin confirms. “She and Brian use the magic axes, to get the Monster out.”

A sea of relieved smiles washes across the theater.

“That’s not the end.” Quentin’s confession douses their happiness like a torrential downpour of winter rain. “Brian knows Nigel and Janet have to rule Fillory. He knows there’s a price for the magic they’ve brought back. So to pay it, he dies, taking the Monster to the Underworld with him. Making sure it can never harm Fillory again. That no one has to guard it again. So that magic can be free for everyone once more, for all time.”

Eliot’s face contorts, bile crawling up his throat. A flock of birds wheel across the open ceiling, settling on the roof. He feels like carrion meat, and the scavengers have found him.

“Well,” Josh remarks, puffing his cheeks as he exhales. “That’s gonna leave ‘em rolling in the aisles.”

“Ooooh that’s a good tragedy,” Marina announces. To Eliot, it's like acid splashed on every wound. And he can’t say anything against her. Not when she’s the stakeholder, and can pull the plug on all this in a heartbeat. “It’s finally one no one in London’s ever seen before. And you want me to be…?”

“The knight guarding the Monster. The one Brian’s relieving of duty,” Quentin answers in a monotone, trying to smile. He is the one who gave her the part in the first place. Might as well offer some encouragement.

Marina’s eyes light up, pleased. “I have just the costume!” It earns her a few odd looks from Tick, Idri, and Mike. “I’m not telling you where I got it from,” she frowns at them.

“Sure, it’s a ‘good’ ending,” Margo says. The sun is bathing her in light, but her tone is the same one Janet uses in the desert, surrounded by the red spirits. “Two things. The play needs a title change. _The Tragedy of Janet the Destroyer_ doesn’t work anymore.”

Eliot raises his eyes, but Margo’s only staring at Quentin. “Call it _The Life of Brian and Nigel._ Like a history. Not a comedy. Not a tragedy. Something in between. Something real.”

Maybe this is her way of apologizing, for what she did last night. Because Quentin is nodding, and he stands a little straighter.

“How’s it not a tragedy?” Eliot says.

He really needs to stop shouting out these things. If he has something to say, the best thing to do is get it out in private. Every time he lets his emotions get the better of him, it smears and stains the few good things he has left.

“It’s not like Brian made any fatal mistakes to get them here. There’s no crucial character flaw, or some big decision he makes, which turns his fate into something inevitable. Nigel? Yes. But it's Brian's story too, so, no.” Margo tilts her chin in his direction. She’s in red again today. A linen doublet with ebony embroidery – arrows, whose fletching lines her collar with feathers. “Plus, there’s a scene missing. You gotta give Brian something to fight for. Something that’s gonna keep him going. Something personal, even after it looks like there’s no hope left. If he doesn’t have that, he would just give up, thinking Nigel’s dead and gone. So give him that something. ‘Cause otherwise, why’d he do it? Why’d any of us do it, if we were in his shoes?”

And surprise of surprises, instead of thinking about it, Quentin instantly says, “You’re right. There’s actually two scenes missing.”

The rest of the company is the perfect audience. Sharp inhales, exchanged looks. They’d just have to pull out legs of mutton to munch on, to complete the image.

“Don’t worry,” Quentin tells them. “They won’t be long. A page or two, at most. But the rest's all, uh, set in stone. And won’t change.” He stretches his arms out, to the stage as a whole. “You all have, um, done wonders, in these short weeks. You’ve made the magic as real as we can, as players. My words are what began this journey, but they would, you know, um, all fizzle into nothing, if you weren’t there to guide us to the end. I can’t wait to see the whole thing together, at last. Company! To your parts!”

“Huzzah!” roars The Whitespire, and they climb to their feet.

The heaviness in Eliot’s heart isn’t abated by such pretty sentiments. With how certain things came to light in Quentin’s room, that feeling is not gonna go away, until they talk. Until they decide how things are gonna end. Decide how much of their story will continue to mirror Brian and Nigel’s.

But Quentin has pulled Lipson and Abigail aside for something, and Mike’s walking over. He’s got the scenes from Acts Three and Four they haven’t run yet. So Eliot gets his head out of the storm clouds, and fulfills his duties.

The rest of the day is grueling. As much as the ending doesn’t sit right with him at all – because merely getting magic back can’t be the “happy ending,” it just _can’t –_ the words themselves are the best Quentin’s ever written. Janet’s triumph is exactly what Margo’s been waiting for. Brian’s speech, before he… falls into the….

Well, it’s almost his new favorite monologue. Nothing tops Rupert’s from _Two Kings_ , but this one comes close.

The company even tries to have a little fun. The Monster does kill a few dozen people in Act Four. During a brief break, everyone makes a game out of how they die. It’s an excuse to practice stage falls – faints, pushes, stumbles – but every death is more dramatic than they’d ever get away with during a live performance. The game eases some tension, now that the play’s lost its lighthearted edge.

But all that ‘death’ only grinds against Eliot’s ears. He’s glad to get back to work when they’re done. The iambs are a comfort. The words tell him what to say, what to feel, for hours and hours. And he has to hand it to Mike, he sure knows how to play a Monster. He watches him change his voice, his walk – hell, even the way he looks at everything. The ever-present, ever darkening bruises and scrapes on his knuckles are ominous now. Like they show how little he cares about the body housing him.

Act Five is… impossible. Eliot asks that they only run the blocking twice. He gamely jumps down the trapdoor a few times, then locks himself in the quick-change room, saying he wants to memorize his speech alone. But he can barely stand to read the words, much less say them. The monologue’s got goodbyes dripping all over it.

An old, spotted, full-length silver mirror on the left wall confronts him with a hazy version of himself. He hasn’t shaved in a few days, making his identity as a eunuch less believable. There are stains on his collar from lunch. He can’t meet his own eyes for more than a second.

It’s hard to say how much time he wastes in here. He pilfers through some drawers, full of emergency pins and stretches of fabric, and briefly imagines what he’d have to do, if his costume shredded on opening day.

Behind the half-empty costume rack, someone's kicked a hole in the wall. Not enough to break through the crossbeams inside, but the blow did make the plaster on the other side crumble away too. He envies that kind of pathos, from whoever delivered the kick. How they could just _physicalize_ their anguish like that. Bending down to look, he can hear people through the slats, and see their shapes as they pace back and forth. Memorizing their new lines, like he’s supposed to be. As much as he’s come to think of theatre as his home, he wishes everyone would just leave.

Eventually, the footfalls and murmured voices cease. The theater goes quiet. A knock taps against the door.

Quentin licks his lips when he opens it, seeing Eliot hunched over on a low stool. “Margo, I think that’s everyone!”

“Poppy’s not in there?” she shouts.

“Nope! Must’ve ducked out with the rest!”

“’Kay! ‘Night, Q!”

“’Night!” He closes the door behind him, leaning back against the wood. In his hands is a thick booklet, bound in expensive leather.

They remain silent for some time. When your chances for true conversation dwindle by the day, by the hour, choosing your words carefully takes up almost as much time as actually saying anything.

“What’s that?” Eliot says, a little hoarsely.

Quentin looks down at the booklet. “It’s, uh. The whole script. With the new scenes. As soon as I got them done, I went over to a clerk, in Bridewell. He’s really fast. Has a good, steady hand.”

“Oh does he?” Eliot says dryly. The innuendo falls utterly flat. He regrets it instantly.

Especially when Quentin stretches out his arm, offering it up.

“For me?” Eliot blinks. “Why?”

“It’s always been yours,” Quentin says.

The sincerity bowls him over. A lump forms in his throat, a million protests piling on top of each other. Quentin’s the author. It all came from his beautiful brain, his beautiful heart, every part of it. If anything, Eliot’s only contributed to the bad sections.

“I… I told Margo that you… have to leave. After opening day.”

Eliot rises, still not taking the script. “And she didn’t claw your eyes out?”

“Not when she saw me nearly crying as I said it.” Quentin runs his hand over the cover. “Then she gave me the money for this. Goodbyes really aren’t her thing.” After Eliot bites his lip, nodding in understanding, Q continues, “It’s so you’ll always have it with you, when… whenever you needed it. There’s sealskin, on the inner layer. To keep the pages dry. And a cord, to mark your progress, or your favorite passages.” He grips the leather hard. “Margo also said I was the, the only one who could… take your place.”

Eliot lets out a long, slow breath. “That’s a good idea. No one knows it better.”

“Tsh, yeah,” Quentin huffs. “What with all the practice I got with you. I’ll get to live out my _fantasy_ , even after you’re gone.”

Wincing, Eliot goes to him. “No, no, look, I didn’t mean that before.” He puts his hands on Quentin’s arms. There’s nothing in the man’s eyes but guilt and sorrow. “Really, Q. I know that’s never been– That’s not how things _are_ , between us.”

“How are they, then?”

“Right now? Terrible,” he says, with a heavy chuckle. “But still the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

The look in Q’s eyes doesn’t change.

Eliot brushes his fringe out of his face, tucking the strands behind one ear, then the other. “So what happens? In the new scenes?”

“I dunno if they’re gonna make the story any better. Things still end the same,” Quentin mumbles.

“Isn’t that how theatre works?” Eliot says softly. He keeps his hand there, cupping the side of Quentin’s face, stroking a thumb across his cheek. “People still want to know how the story’s told. How it’s different than other versions. Even if they know the ending.”

Quentin presses into the touch desperately. He takes a shuddering breath, like he’s got just enough strength now, from the contact, to do what Eliot asks. “The first is, like, kinda how Margo said. Brian needs something. To keep him going. To keep him fighting for Fillory. For Nigel.”

Relief flutters in Eliot’s chest. Of course Margo ended up being right earlier. She is always right – it’s a fact of the universe – but it’s times like these which really hammer the point home. The fact that it was _narratively_ necessary is true. But also, it’s totally beside the point.

Q needed to write that kind of a scene, for himself. To see that he can keep going, even through the heartbreak fast approaching them. Margo knew that – knew _him_ like that – like she knows so many other things. Eliot loves her for it, utterly and completely.

Quentin flips to the new pages now, holding it out for Eliot to see.

_Nigel: Was not the fifty years I spent with thee enough to prove the concept of our bond?_

_Brian: What didst thou say?_

_Nigel: Dost thou kick thy tiles at me, whoreson?_

"Harsh," Eliot notes.

"Nigel's got a bit of a mouth on him."

"Yeah he does," Eliot quips. He can't help it. It's how he's survived this long. Thankfully, it looks like it landed right this time. Q's fighting the ghost of a smile.

The line after that reads, _I live within the confines of this Monster._

“Even as powerful as the Monster is,” Quentin says, following the upside down letters with his eyes, “its hold on Nigel isn’t, uh, complete, I guess. Nigel’s strong enough to break through the Monster’s power. He lets Brian know he’s alive. _That_ is what shows Brian he's gotta keep going.”

Eliot's mouth quirks up. “So, is Fen the Monster here?”

“The Monster’s a lot of things,” Q shrugs. “The point is, Nigel’s not lost to it. Never has been.”

All that, within a few pages. Using lines from Act Two and Act Three, which only Brian and Nigel would know.

And the audience too, he supposes.

It’s the first time he’s ever really seen all those people as an afterthought. And it’s the first time he feels like the play is for the people actually bringing it to life, not for the ones looking to be entertained just for an afternoon.

He’s not one of those people anymore. Never really was, anyway. Not with the abhorrent ideals that they cling to.

“You said there’s a second one?”

“Flip to Act Two, Scene Two.”

Finally, Eliot takes the manuscript. The pages slip easily backward across his thumb. The clerk has genuinely done the best money could buy. None of the ink has bled through to the other side. Each leaf of paper has even, flowing columns of poetry. Every syllable in its exact place.

Except, of course, for this part. Defying convention, Quentin apparently asked the clerk to notate each step of the dance. Unlike any future productions, this version, Eliot’s version, has the blocking set down in stone. His copy thus contains the proof of his time in the company. Of the mark he’s made on the production as a whole.

He nods, looking up. “In case I forget how it went?”

“Not exactly. Look through the whole thing.”

Frowning, Eliot flips to the next page.

_Enter Woman. She tosses Brian fruit from her basket. Nigel waves at her gamely._

_The three exit._

_Enter Brian & Woman. They dance together, and kiss. Nigel works on the mosaic. _

_The three exit._

_Enter Brian & Nigel, older. They work on the mosaic. Enter Woman from the cottage. She sets down a small boy, who runs to his father. The four dance _ _together_ _. Woman exits. Brian doesn’t see her leave. He breaks down, collapsing into tears. The boy doesn’t know where to go. Nigel comforts them all._

Eliot blinks his eyes very quickly as they start to burn. “Q, what… what is this?”

“I talked with Abigail. Asked her to play the, the woman. And Lipson’s bringing her sons in. Luca and Tim.”

“That’s not what I- This isn’t what… happened…”

_The three exit._

_Enter Brian, Nigel, & the boy, all older. The boy gets ready to leave the cottage behind. _

_Brian: See to it that thou comes to visit soon._

_Boy: I swear to it, Father._

“It’s…” Quentin sighs, looking for the right words. Eliot can barely tear his eyes away from the page to see the expression on his face.

_The boy embraces Nigel, and then Brian. He exits, as the two kings look on. Nigel puts a hand on Brian’s shoulder._

_The two exit._

_Enter Brian and Nigel, ancient. They work on the mosaic._

_Nigel: Dost thou ever think on them?_

_Brian: Our grandchildren?_

_Nigel: Nay, good Brian. I speak of thy companions, and mine. From the lives we once led, before our sojourn here._

_Brian: Betimes I do see them, in my most sacred dreams._

The rest of Act Two proceeds as it has always gone. Only now, Brian and Nigel, they… they had a family.

There’s a ringing in his ears. He can barely stand.

“I guess it’s my way of… of… rewriting the past. And rewriting the future. To give you, um, the life you deserve.”

* * *

[ ](https://yourtinseltinkerbell.tumblr.com/post/630338748231663616/i-guess-its-my-way-ofofrewriting-the-past-and)

* * *

Eliot tosses the book down onto a chest of drawers, and crowds into Quentin’s space. He slots his hand behind his neck, snares a hold of his jacket, and kisses him, ruthlessly, like he’ll die if he doesn’t. Quentin stills, for barely a second, before he whimpers, low, in the back of his throat, and kisses him back.

Oh, how had he ever stopped doing this. How had he ever thought there was anything more important than slipping his tongue into Quentin’s mouth. Feeling his unkempt stubble scrape perfectly across his jaw. Holding his hot little body in his grip, pressing him up against the hard door. Licking and nipping at his smooth pink lips.

He can’t say them. The words. Any words. None of them feel _enough_ , feel _right_. They’re too simple, too overused, too small, too basic, not enough, never enough, incapable of containing the depth of his feelings. He has to show him. Make him see. How he craves to honor him, devote his life to him, to thank him, to bring him nothing but pleasure and happiness. More than anything in this life, for the rest of his life, that's all he wants. Even if he can’t.

With this moment, Eliot would rewrite the past a thousand times if he could. He would storm the gates of Time itself. He would tear the book of destiny from its hands. So he could pen it in himself. Make it possible. Make it real. In a matter of days, he’ll have to say goodbye. So let this be one of their true farewells. On _their_ time. The way _they_ want it to be.

Quentin pants and moans against his mouth, louder than he’s ever been in Eliot’s rooms. It sends heat flaring inside Eliot’s belly, and he presses against Q even harder. There are no rules here. No one around to catch them. He fits his thigh between his, feels him growing harder beneath his trousers.

“I – I want–” Quentin can’t make his mouth keep up with his body. He kisses down Eliot’s neck. Runs his fantastic tongue along his pulse. It makes Eliot moan too, relishing the freedom he has to make _noise_. He grabs a handful of his round, pert ass, feels the muscle jump and clench, as his fingers push into the fabric.

“Tell me. What? What is it, baby?”

Tugging at his curls, Quentin doesn’t get any more words out, as he kisses him again. His fingers tighten, lancing the best kind of pain across Eliot’s scalp. He bends a little, to give him better access, and that’s barely enough to satisfy.

“You have to know–” Q says. He twists his fingers beneath Eliot’s shirt. The second they touch Eliot’s stomach, they become a brand. A good, strong burn, as they drag across the trail of hair down his stomach. “No matter where you go. You have to know you aren’t hers. Aren’t anyone’s.”

An ache settles across Eliot’s heart. What he wouldn’t do to prove him wrong. To declare it before every single person on this godforsaken planet. To show Heaven and Earth that he _did_ belong to someone. One person, and one person only. He rucks Q’s shirt out from beneath his belt. Kissing across his jaw, down his soft neck, he tears his jacket off of his shoulders, and pulls his doublet and his shirt over his head.

“I’m _yours_.”

Quentin gasps as his nipples are bared to the air, moments before Eliot’s mouth descends on one sensitive nub.

“Christ, _El_ – _”_

“Fuck, yes, baby, let me hear you,” he hisses, bringing his mouth back down. Biting. Sucking. Letting his fingers trail up to play with the other nipple. Ghosting through the little tawny hairs on his broad chest, as he tugs, and hears Q cry out again.

“You too.”

Eliot feels Quentin’s hands scrambling along his lower back. He yanks Eliot’s shirt out of his pants too, forcing Eliot to straighten, as he shucks his arms out of his sleeves, and the whole ensemble gets thrown off his head and down to the floor in one fluid stroke. They’re back in each other’s arms a second later, and not a second too soon. Beautifully exposed, feeling the press of hot skin, as their stomachs brush with every hitch of wanton breath. Surrounded by the music of their soft moans.

Eliot wraps one arm all the way around Quentin’s back, rubbing his other hand across his pec in circles, and down his ribs, as he kisses him, filthy, sloppy, all tongue, only coming up for air as long as he can stand it, before he brings them together again. His cock, trapped in his disguise, is straining, getting wet. “Hold on.” Forcing himself to let go, he turns, leaning against the wall, to see to his boots and hose.

Q, half dazed, tries to imitate him. But he stumbles forward too, with every layer he sheds, unable to resist, drunk, drawn like a bee to sweet honey.

“Easy,” Eliot whispers, as he trips, trying to keep them upright and get out of his clothes all at once. But Quentin doesn’t listen, following, always following, crowding him, until Eliot’s in nothing but his garter, the cold mirror pressing against his naked ass. For a moment, Q’s hungry gaze traces his flushed chest, his shaking legs. Equally stark naked before him, cock erect and flushed and glistening at the tip, he surges forward to hold him in his arms again. Like he’s starving for it, he brings Eliot’s head down, kissing him hard.

“If we had a hundred years,” Eliot whispers in his mouth. “I wouldn’t have my fill of you. I’d crave you. On my cock, in my hands, in my mouth, in _me_ , all the time.” He grips his hips, pulling him forward, encouraging to Q to rut shamelessly against his hip. The thrusts press Eliot even more onto the mirror. They smear his belly with slick from his cockhead.

“God, yes. Fuck. I want to be, fucking, _inside_ you.”

Pulling away for a split second, Eliot shakes his head, catching his breath, brushing their noses back and forth. “I don’t think there’s anything– I don’t have–”

Quentin grabs the garter, shoving it down, trapping Eliot’s legs as he gets his nimble hands around Eliot’s freed, thickening cock. Eliot cries out, his mouth curving up into an aching, pleased whine as he starts pumping him in his fist. Slow. Too slow. He feels every sensitive inch of himself light up, from the dragging slide of his hand. He throws his head back, banging it against the glass. Quentin adds a little twist, then thumbs across the head, spreading precome along his palm, crowding close.

“Yeah,” Q pants, right in Eliot's ear, pumping him harder, moving both their bodies with the motion. “I want that too. But really, I want, I want your, your arms around me. Your body atop mine. Covering every inch of me. Nothing between us.” He twists his grip again, and Eliot thrusts hard into his hand before he can stop himself, crying out louder than ever. “So I never know anything but your touch, your skin, your warmth, your light. I want to _fit_ inside you, behind your ribs, around your heart. So they can never take me from you. So you _always_ have me, right there. As if we were one. So you’re _never_ alone.”

Clinging to his shoulders, Eliot tries to stay up. He’s losing all sense of his limbs, the edges of his awareness fading, as his body hones in on Quentin’s scorching touch, as he can’t help but fuck his fist. But his knees buckle, before he’s ready, and he and Quentin fall to the floor together, still entwined. Q has to let go of Eliot, to steady him elsewhere, and he shouldn’t miss that connection so badly, but it’s nearly all he can think about. Those endless brown eyes are raking over him, nothing but dampening heat and unbending devotion.

An idea blooms in his head. The immodesty of it thrills his heart. Sends more slickness beading from his length. Brings a new heaviness to his balls.

Swallowing, he meets Q’s eyes, in reassurance. “I think I can do something about that. Come here.”

He takes the garter off entirely, and gently situates his poet before the mirror. He can see the bewilderment on his face, and the slight embarrassment.

No. Those feelings have no place here. They’re pure anathema.

He moves Quentin’s shins closer, just a little, so he can bracket them with his knees. In the mirror, he appears behind Q’s back, and brings them flush together with a light push. Quentin moans when he feels Eliot’s cock digging into the gap between his cheeks. He lets him lean back, so he can feel all of Eliot’s chest and stomach at his back. With barely any pressure, one of his hands tilts his chin around. He kisses him, chastely. Memorizing the feel of his lips. The other hand trails down, and wraps around Quentin’s dick.

He swallows the groan that follows. Encourages Q to move, with little nudges from his hips, sliding his dick down and in, telling him to thrust, to take his pleasure. When he comes up for air, he can see Q’s eyes slide to the mirror, to watch them move together. The heat that blooms on his skin is delectable. It’s divine.

“You see that? See us?” he whispers.

Q nods. Eliot fits his hand right over his heart. Lets him watch the rise and fall of his own chest. Lets him feel the frantic thuds of his pulse against Eliot’s palm. Lets him see Eliot’s hand, wrapped around him, playing with the sheath, tracing the veins.

And then he moves himself, to slip his thick cock down further, between Quentin’s thighs.

Q’s head falls back against his shoulder, as he squeezes his eyes shut, overcome by the intimacy of the feeling. Eliot’s cockhead pushes through, appearing in the mirror, nestling just underneath Eliot’s fingers, before he takes them away, so it sticks up right under Quentin’s length, and Eliot jerks his hips. On instinct, Q looks back up, and he’s met with the sight of them in the mirror again.

“Squeeze, Q. With your thighs. Feel me there. Feel me.”

A shiver gallops down his spine as he does. Q falls forward, bracing himself on the mirror’s frame. “Eliot,” he whines. “God, yes, fuck, fuck me right there. Don’t stop.”

This’s how he wants Quentin to see himself. Not caring about what he’s supposed to do, supposed to think, supposed to feel. If Quentin could only know, forever, how radiant his soul shines, when he seeks nothing but his own satisfaction. When the darkness of his mind is banished like this, frail and feeble in the face of their devotion to each other.

He fucks into the rough channel, hissing, aching from the friction, barely anything between them to ease the way. He spits into his palm, and moves to coat Quentin’s thighs with it. And he obeys Q, to the letter, thrusting hard, letting him see their joining in the mirror. The sounds of them fill the air. Moans, pants, slick fucking. They bend and arch against each other like ripples, like leaves caught in the wind. Q’s balls, his perfect cock, they both brush against him every time, heavy, swollen. It sends sparks dancing behind his eyes. His ass nestles against his hips, meeting his movements every time. He picks up the pace, getting louder, more frantic.

"Yeah, baby, fuck, that's it."

"Oh god, oh fuck."

"Keep your thighs together. You're so good. So tight. Perfect, so fucking hot, Q."

"El, god, don't stop, please, El, _please_."

Oh they could finish like this, easy, only after Eliot stretches this time into eternity, until they’re both sobbing, begging for relief, and begging to never let it stop.

But he remembers one last piece. One final act he can do, to drive them to finishing, together. Not letting up with the pounding of his hips, he brings his arms up, covering Quentin’s with them, caging him, lacing their fingers together with both hands. He meets Q’s wild desperate eyes in the glass.

“This is what being inside me looks like, Q.”

Then he slows his pace, but puts more strength behind his movements, slamming their skin together, moving their whole bodies together, with every punctuation. The frame of the mirror creaks from the push of their hands. “I said to you, on our first morning,” – _thrust_ – “that you made me” – _thrust_ – “who I am. Ever since I saw your first play,” – _thrust_ – “heard your speeches,” – _thrust_ – “felt them sear themselves on my heart, you’ve left your mark.”

Q pants, cries out, every time. He grips Eliot’s fingers in his hands until their knuckles turn white. Eliot dips his head, to speak right in his ear.

“You made me believe in magic.” Another thrust, Another cry. “In being open, and hopeful, and brave. Your influence, your _signature_. Is all over me. You _are_ inside me. You’ve always been. You’ll always be. Right here. We’re two parts of one whole.”

“ _Eliot_.” His hips press back ardently, unrelentingly. Q squeezes his fingers tighter, and comes, untouched. His come jets out, painting the mirror. He shudders beneath him, and Eliot tries to keep his wits about him, pushes back the demands of his body, to etch this picture in the book of his memory.

Q’s not lost in the moment, though. “On. On my back. Come on me, El.”

The words melt down Eliot’s spine. He can think of nothing else, do nothing else. Taking his arm away, he fits his hand between them, and jerks himself off, without art or rhythm. The sweaty heat of them, the musky smell at the nape of Quentin’s neck, the gasping breaths from Q as he comes down from his orgasm, that brush his strong, freckled back against Eliot’s chest. He touches his forehead to his shoulder blade, presses a kiss there, and lets go.

He cries out, squeezing his eyes shut. His hips stutter, and he loses time. Falls into a little, beautiful oblivion. When he opens his eyes, he’s greeted with a gorgeous sight. His come has landed right on the cheeks of Q’s ass, and the small of his back.

Fucking hell. His cock pearls one final drop, as he stares.

The mirror’s reflection shows the still-blissed out look on his poet’s face. He’s apparently happy to let Eliot move him off of his knees, to sit in his lap, and settle there. They stick together with this new position. But they keep each other up, too. Some undefined emotion swells in Eliot’s breast. There’s protectiveness, longing, tenderness, and a few other feelings, all at once. That Quentin’s far-gone enough to trust Eliot with himself, to be vulnerable for longer than Eliot would ever let himself be. Always. That all the misunderstandings from before haven’t flooded back to fill the space between them.

Reaching out, he grabs a spare swatch of linen from a drawer, and wipes the mirror clean. “Bet you’ll never look at this room the same way again,” he says lightly.

Q offers a slow blink, smiling with his eyes. He shuffles in his lap a little, brushing a touch along Eliot’s knee. “Thank you,” he says. Then he blinks a few more times, and then frowns. “Uh, wait, sorry, I don’t mean thanks like, like what you did was–”

“I know,” Eliot says. He starts cleaning up the mess between them. After a moment, as he slides the cloth across his skin, he brushes little kisses along Quentin’s neck and shoulders. Q shuffles even closer in his lap. When Eliot’s finished, tossing the cloth in a bin, he brings his arms around him, and holds him gently. He feels their sweat cool and dry, feels him breathe, feels his warmth as he rests his head beside his.

 _Those_ words start rising in his throat again. Fluttering, hopeful things, every one of them. He’d called him… _that_ , _that_ word, the very first time they’d been together. He marvels now, how easily it’d slipped from his mouth at the time. 

Say it. Say it now. Say it while he’s right here. While they feel safe and close and unencumbered by all the shit waiting for them outside.

“Sleep with me tonight?” Quentin says. “If it won’t be too…. If you’re alright with…”

“Yeah,” Eliot says, clearing his throat. The fluttering stops. But there’s no relief, just hollow regret. “I’ll send a message, tell Todd not to send a search party.”

Q starts to get up. Before Eliot can mourn the loss of contact, Quentin’s shuffling back over, and he’s holding the neck of his shirt open, for Eliot to slip his head through. He says, “Well in that case, be’er help milord set hisself to rights,” using the nasally voice from the other night.

“Oh my God, don’t,” he laughs. “I still can’t believe that worked.” He does duck his head, though, and the fabric brushes his ears as it slips down his shoulders. They’ve undressed each other plenty of times. Dressing each other, though, holds a special pleasure all its own. Eliot spies Q’s trousers and underclothes, and returns the gesture.

“Me neither. But I’m glad it did.”

“You are?”

Q bites his lip. “I got to hear you argue with _the queen_ , about plays.”

Eliot leans closer. “And tell her what I think of yours.”

That does the trick. Q’s face, though still a little flushed, gets pinker.

“What?” Q squirms, seeing the shine in Eliot's eyes.

“That face you make. I like it.”

“That look in your eyes when I make it. I like it too.”

Eliot bows his head, caught. He retaliates with a cheeky peck on his nose. Hates himself for how much he wants this to be their everyday lives. How he can’t get over always wanting to make Q happy, as they head over to a bakery, after sending Todd that message, and he buys him the last sweet bun with the spare change. How, after dinner, they crawl back into Quentin’s room, and press the sweetest kisses into each other’s skin.

They blow each other, slowly, feeling each other empty themselves down the smooth channel of their throats. Q, exhausted, fits himself in the crook of Eliot’s neck, drapes half of himself across Eliot’s chest and legs, exhales, and says “I love you.” And falls asleep before Eliot can work up the courage to say it back.

He learns, the next day, that that was his last chance. That swearing to himself - that he’ll have another chance, it's fine, there's still time - was a lie, in the end.

Rehearsal is well underway that morning. Eliot has secreted his manuscript backstage, so it's only left his side by the thinnest of technicalities. Q, his job officially done except for coaching the actors here and there, now acts as spare pair of eyes out in the audience, since Margo's stepped onto the stage full time.

They do everything, Act One through Act Five. Making the chaos run like clockwork. Eliot’s rolling around on the mosaic with Mike, laughing, as they run Act Two, Scene Two, for the second time. The promise he’s made to himself this morning, about saying _those_ words to Quentin, _tonight_ , come what may, has made him lighter. Knowing the new scene, with Lipson’s son waiting in the wings right now, is moments away, is what distracts him. So he doesn’t look up instantly, when Poppy Kline storms in through the public entrance.

“There he is, the _sodomite_ ,” she yells, pointing at the pair of them. It’s for the benefit of the Master of Revels, swaggering in lazily, some feet behind her.

“Excuse me?!” Mike pries himself out from beneath Eliot.

Everything else has stopped. Including Eliot’s heart.

Tick fetches Josh from backstage. The manager straightens his collar, stepping forward. “Uh-hum, Mr. Adyodi, good morning. To what do we, uh, owe this honor?”

“’Morning,” Penny says. His arms stay crossed. The frown on his face doesn’t go away.

By now, the rest of the cast has started to come on stage. Eliot takes a few steps back, letting the little crowd swallow him up. A hundred thoughts are barreling through him. Sweat breaks out and trickles down his back, and he glances over at Q.

Who… isn’t making for the nearest escape, like he is. He’s going forward, along with everyone else. Not retreating. Confronting the problem, even if he’s afraid. Goddamnit.

He’s glowering at Poppy, with more contempt than he thought him capable of. “Penny, what’re you doing here?” he says.

Eliot didn’t realize they were familiar enough with each other, to be on a first name basis.

Sighing, Penny answers, “Reports of Sedition and Indecency, apparently. Charges that’re serious enough to close down The Whitespire.”

“Indecency?”

“Over here, sir!” Poppy points to Eliot. Her red curls bounce as she jogs over, to make sure she’s not mistaken. “I saw him.”

“Two men, _together_ , on the stage,” the Master of Revels clarifies. At least he doesn’t sound like he’s enjoying this. “That’s not something England allows its players to show to the public. Never has been.”

It really doesn’t help that Penny _happened_ to come in right as they were rolling around on the floor together. But the rest of the cast members at least look around at each other dubiously. Maybe one or two of them had their suspicions; but, even so, everything has always been vague enough to get away with. And their play is certainly not as textually overt as _Edward II_ had been.

Margo parts the curtains, mid-costume fitting. Lipson trails in behind her, a few pins stuck between her teeth.

“By that description, that’s every play ever written,” Margo snarks.

“And Benedick’s a eunuch,” Micah says, trying to be helpful. “It’s not like, he, um, like _that_ ’s what’s happening, anyway. It’s different.”

Margo looks like she wants to hit him. But, at this point, any arguments that people offer against Poppy’s accusations, Eliot will take. His charm is all dried up. He feels frozen to the spot. Speaking up in his own defense won’t work. It’ll just make him look more guilty. And running’s no better. If this isn’t handled very, very carefully, the trouble they’re in right now? It’ll only grow, only get more complicated, more painful. His cover is moments from being blown. Hell, Penny might even recognize him – he’s seen him at court often enough.

“No, he’s not!” Poppy says. She climbs up onto the stage. The company seems to close ranks in front of her, barring her path. She turns to Penny insistently. “Last night, I _saw_ him. All of him.”

He and Q go very still, but don’t look at each other. Eliot’s brain starts running through everything they did. All those times they were sure they were alone, sure they were safe.

Q glares at Poppy. “Penny, I don’t know what Ms. Kline has told you, but she’s definitely got ulterior motives. A couple weeks ago, we decided not to give her a role. 'Cause she endangered others. And now, here she is, days before we open, trying to get us shut down? With nothing but her word for it? This’s got ‘petty grudge’ written all over it.”

Poppy throws her hands up in the air. “Just check him! You’ll see I’m right!”

“Benedick, come over here.” Margo walks to the edge of the stage, beckoning Eliot with a crook of her finger. It’s the last fucking thing he wants to do, but he has to trust her, has to believe she’ll talk their way out of this. He taps Idri on the shoulder to let him pass, and comes to a stop a few feet away from her. He can feel everyone’s eyes on him, Q’s most of all.

“Listen, hun,” Margo says to Penny, “having anyone grab this guy’s parts – or, lack of ‘em, honestly – would be the _real_ indecency here. He’s probably had enough people checking him to last a fuckin’ lifetime. And probably none of it was consensual either. If you really need some kinda proof–” and here she sighs, looking at him with every ounce of apology she has, to the point where Eliot’s genuinely not sure if she’s acting – “then just look at his loins. Every man out there has a bit of a bulge. And I’m barely seeing one on him. How ‘bout you?

The stares get worse. Every inch of Eliot’s skin is on fire. The embarrassed blush on his face is entirely real. But his disguise hasn’t failed him yet, and it’s not failing him now. Margo’s convinced pretty much everyone in the room. Once they decide she's right, a few are courteous enough to look away, to give him back a modicum of respect. Despite the scrutiny, his shoulders loosen by a hair.

“Jesus Christ!” Poppy shouts. She runs at him. Q, Rafe, Margo, and Idri all start forward protectively, but they’re too late. She yanks his trousers to the floor. Eliot can feel it when her fingers catch on the garter, and they take the disguise with them. She leaves scratches on his skin, but no one pays that any mind. They’re all staring at Eliot once more.

And at the very obvious dick hanging between his legs.

He dives to cover himself, a few gasps ringing in his ears. But the sounds that crush his heart into dust? Are the words now coming from Penny’s mouth. With his eyes closed, like he’s pronouncing a death sentence, he says, “By order of Her Majesty, this theater is closed for Indecency. Notice’ll get posted on the doors this afternoon.”

“No!” Q cries.

Josh leaps off of the stage. “Mr. Adiyodi, please! I didn’t know anything about this!”

Eliot has to do something. He has to do whatever he can to save them, somehow. His devil’s bargain has come due, and he’s not getting anyone else dragged into hell with him.

“No one knew!” he says. He feels tears prickling at his eyes, as he tries to secure his trousers back on his hips. “I swear it. I acted alone.”

Poppy flips her hair behind her shoulders. “Uh, no you didn’t,” she says, raising her eyebrows. She points at Quentin. “He definitely knew. He was riding your dick backstage. God, you’re a pair of screamers.”

You could hear a pin drop, with the way the theater goes dead quiet. And Eliot can physically see all of the cast putting the pieces together in their heads.

Penny sighs one more time. Pointing at Q first, then Eliot, he says, “You, and you, come here.”

Walking like the condemned, they join him in the middle of the floor. Q tries one last time to say something. Anything. But Penny cuts him off with a gesture.

“Listen,” he says, barely above a whisper, “if I don’t do this, she’s just gonna go tattle off to someone else. Someone who will do more than just shutting the play down, you understand?”

“Penny, you can’t–”

“Just shut the fuck up and think for a second, dipshit,” Penny scowls. “You think I don’t know who he is?” He turns his eyes to Eliot, trying to get him to see reason. “What’s gonna happen, if your dad hears about this? What do you think he’ll do, once the accusations start flyin'?”

Eliot drops his head, his chin falling to his chest, as terror leeches every other feeling out of his body.

“It’s better to let this girl think she’s won,” Penny continues. “I’m sorry. I really am. I got nothin’ against this, you know that. But, at the same time, I’ve only got one card I can play here. At least when I play it, I’m keeping as many o’ you guys safe as I can, alright? So say your goodbyes, don’t see each other again, and let this end quietly.”

With that, Penny turns on his heel, and exits The Whitespire.

Eliot meets Quentin’s eyes. He’s thrown back to yesterday. The same utter anguish from before has followed them here. But instead of getting the chance to fix everything, with explanations and details, with words, _any_ words, they can’t say anything. They can’t kiss. They can’t embrace. Not with the whole cast watching. It would be rubbing their selfish choices in their faces.

So Eliot does what he did at the ball. Gives the barest of nods. And starts to leave.

“Waiiiihhhh” a voice calls out.

He turns. Harriet’s running down the stage stairs toward him. His script is in her hands.

She holds it out to him, once she draws near. He can’t make his arms move, to take it from her. He doesn’t deserve it. Any scrap of it. They ought to stone him. He’s been completely foolish. Childish. Every second. One little choice, to let down his guard, to allow others in, and this is where that’s lead him. Total ruin. All their efforts, wasted. He’ll never earn their forgiveness.

Harriet’s still looking at him. So earnestly. So expectantly.

“I… I just,” he says, choking up. Suddenly, nothing is more important than making her understand. “I just wanted to be an actor.”

She must read the words on his lips. The most unexpected, kind smile appears on her face. She shoves the booklet at his chest, forcing him to take it. She points at him, and then raises both of her hands, palm outward, pushing them out at the empty air twice, and while she does this, she mouths, “You were wonderful.”

Unable to stop himself, he rushes forward, hugging her. She has to stand on tiptoe to wrap her arms around him. But as he shudders, too overcome for words, she soothes him with light, brushing pats. When he lets go, he raises his eyes, meeting the stares of the other company members head on. There’s still nothing he can say. But some of them have the same expression as Harriet’s. He sees them acknowledging the injustice of it all. Feels reassured, that many of them are turning to glare at Poppy now, with outright loathing.

Meeting Margo’s eyes after that is akin to losing a limb. He feels like he loses another one when she bows her head, slowly, like one monarch before another. He mirrors her. Then he puts his fingers to his lips, and sweeps his hand out, sending a small kiss her way.

All of his foundations crumble when he turns back to Quentin. His joy. His light. His soul. His hope.

He’s had him, and lost him, too many times. Once more should be easy.

Can’t someone just… end him? Right here. So he doesn’t have to be the one to run away, again and a-fucking-gain. He takes one last, long look.

“’In my most sacred dreams,’ El,” Quentin says, his face contorting as he tries, and fails, to keep himself together.

He can’t take this. This agony. They were supposed to have more time. He doesn’t think any amount of time, nor any series of events, would ever be enough. Would ever be remotely _acceptable_. It's too soon! It's too fucking soon!

And, just like Q, he finally stops hiding how devastated he feels. Tears slip out of his eyes, pitter down his cheeks. Because any amount of pretending, any lies or façades, would be cruel here. They had promised to be themselves, after all. Why break that promise one last time? Why not be real, be true, in the last moments they can? As the last memory they’ll have of each other.

“’Enough to prove the concept of our bond,’” he replies, agreeing with him. He brings the manuscript to his mouth. Kisses the cover, before God and these witnesses, and then turns to go, squinting as he exits into the harsh afternoon sun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An Aside to the Audience:
> 
> There is still a lot of mystery surrounding Kit Marlowe's death. One theory - which is admittedly semi-plausible at best - states that his death might have been faked in order to save him from an upcoming trial for his supposed atheism. I decided to give this to Seb, so he and Lance could sail off into the French sunset together. 
> 
> Also yes, I am very familiar with _The Life of Brian_ , thank you. I just couldn't see them calling Q's play "The Life of Nigel and Brian;" it genuinely doesn't sit with you the same, you know? It felt like trying to call it _Juliet and Romeo_. Not bad, just not quite right. We thespians also tend to abbreviate show titles when talking about them as much as possible, because it's just easier, and people tend to know what you're talking about when you do it anyway. Rest assured, it'll be _Brian and Nigel_ from here on out. 
> 
> Now that Q's past in this 'verse is out of the bag: Shakespeare lost his eleven-year-old son Hamnet in August of 1596. I left the details of Teddy's passing ambiguous, since Hamnet's cause of death also remains unknown to this day, and I did not want to focus on the "what" of what happened more than the aftermath. I wanted to address how Quentin (and Eliot) never gets the chance to mourn Teddy in the show. Ever. EVER. To steal a line from Theoden from _The Two Towers_ , "No parent should have to bury their child," and this remains too true for these two fathers. Although they never buried him, obviously, they lost him to time, in more ways than one. That leaves a hole, and although we know/hope Teddy lived a beautiful life of his own thanks to that grandkids line in 3x05, the reality of **never** seeing him again, of living on without him, is a part of Q and El's story, no matter how much the showrunners/writers want to pretend it isn't. Theatre and fiction and art have this magical way of bringing to life what we think has been lost, and at least in this 'verse, Teddy both overtly and subtly gets the timeless life he always deserved, thanks to Quentin and Eliot's love for him and for each other.


	12. Act Four, Scene Two

The last time he knocked on Kady’s door, things went to shit fast. There’s every chance this visit will end badly too.

He’d gone to bed numb last night, and he’d felt only a few things when he woke up this morning. Hunger. Thirst. Easy twinges to ignore. He nearly rolled back over, to bury his face in the pillow where Eliot had laid beside him the other night.

But trying to slip back into his dreams was foolish. It was no guarantee of happiness. And, he supposed, he ought to treasure that last, wispy trace of him. It was going to vanish as quickly as everything else always did. Quentin couldn’t waste it. Couldn’t use it up all in one go. So that meant leaving his rooms, to face the world.

Fucking hell. Tell Bacchus he’d cracked it. He’d found the one thing that’d get him out of bed every day: getting to crawl back in at the end of it. Just to experience the last shreds of the past while he still could.

Now, what to do, to fill the rest of his time up? There’s a big, gaping hole in his day-to-day schedule. Nowhere to go, no one to talk to, and no words to churn out.

As he pulled his head through his last clean shirt this morning, alongside the numbness, he somehow still felt jumpy. Violated, even. Like he would never be safe again, no matter how careful he tried to be. As much as he never wanted to move, to feel, to do anything, ever again, he also wanted to pace, to run far away, to growl and scream, like an animal driven from its territory. Like a man driven from his home.

He knows Penny’s “indecency” notice has no guarantee of ever being lifted. Word’s gonna get out soon enough that it was _his_ play that closed The Whitespire back down. Or, honestly, that it was just his fault entirely. Whatever credibility he’s earned for himself over the years, and whatever reputation his company has built up alongside it, will be gone by the time the theater gets permission to produce plays again. After whoever’s palms have been greased. Or whoever’s ass has been kissed.

“Indecency.” It was such a teeth-grindingly distasteful word. A cudgeling attempt to cover something up – something that wasn’t even actually wrong in the first place – with a glossy varnish of feigned politeness. Being _considerate_ of the _sensitivities_ of the masses. Out of spite, he decides he's never using the word again, after this.

There is one thing he can dedicate all his other words to now: he’s got some apologies to make. Not for any self-serving reasons. He’s earned their ire. He’s happy to be their punching bag, even, if that’s what it comes down to. Quentin’s not sure where he’ll find most of his friends – if he could even call them that anymore. If they’ll even want to see him, once he finds them. They’ve no doubt scattered all over the city since yesterday. Most of them have their other trades to fall back on. There’s always income to earn. The world, somehow, impossibly, doesn’t stop when theatre does.

Although, the weather’s doing a good job of proving him wrong. Despite the August heat, grey clouds have covered every inch of the sky. A lethargy has settled over the city and seeped into his bones. He doesn’t fight against the numbness so much as carry it with him, as he heads out onto the street.

The idea of where to start comes to him when he’s already halfway there. The first house on his pilgrimage of contrition. He should have stopped by much sooner anyway. He’d had plenty of chances to. Happiness just has a habit of blinding him to reality. But he’s recovered from that now. Like it was a fever sickness, filling his head with impossible visions, and he’s finally starting to see clearly again.

His feet carry him to Kady’s house in the blink of an eye. Without anything else to lose, he knocks.

“Coming, hold on!”

Good. She is home after all. He swallows, bracing himself. The door swings open, and Alice’s guarded expression greets him on the threshold.

“Hi, Alice,” he says. He itches to fidget with his hands, but keeps them still.

She brushes some of her hair back behind one ear. She’s trimmed it a little, so it frames her face symmetrically. The blonde strands brush across the shoulders of her stained work tunic whenever she moves her head. One of her pale eyebrows arches up, an accusation all its own.

“I just. I. I wanted–”

“You here for Kady?” she says, crossing her arms. She must not have the patience for his stammering today.

“I’m here to see you. To say sorry.”

Another strand of her fringe slips free, but her eyebrow doesn’t move. “Kady said something to you, didn’t she?”

“Well, I mean–”

“She shouldn’t have. It wasn’t any of her business.”

“She did it ‘cause she cares about you.”

A cart trundles through a puddle behind him, splashing his calves and dripping filthy water into his boots. Shuddering, he resists the urge to step forward. He’s infringing enough as it is.

“But even if she hadn’t, _I_ should’ve come to see you a lot sooner. I owed you that.”

“What are you really here for, Q?”

He hasn’t been on the receiving end of her intolerance for bullshit in a while. He’s almost glad of it. Anything to keep his mind here, to keep him honest and focused.

“To say sorry,” he says again. “To tell you that you were right, and that I was stupid and selfish for just walking out on you like that.”

Her piercing blue glare is unrelenting. She doesn’t blink, doesn’t sigh, doesn’t move a muscle. She keeps him there for ten whole minutes. When he doesn’t show any sign of impatience with her, she pushes the door wider. “I have some things to finish,” she says. “You can talk while I work.”

He nods, and follows her in as she heads to the kitchen. There’s a flickering fire in the hearth, ramping up the heat inside. He waits on the edges of the room as she pulls a cast-iron arm away from the flames. It’s supporting a small cauldron of water, into which she pours a bottle of blue dye. While she uses a pair of tongs to lower some cloth in to soak, she tells him to find a seat anywhere.

Admittedly, that’s easier said than done. The entire costume rack from _Faustus_ has wound up all over the table and across all the chairs. Moving the stack of corsets seems the safest choice.

An embarrassing, loud gurgle erupts from his stomach the second he sits down. He hasn’t eaten since yesterday’s lunch break at The Whitespire. Hadn’t even thought to.

Alice glances at him. Her face is a mixture of contempt and concern all at once. “If you want some tea o–”

“No, I– You don’t have to– I’m not here to– I’ll go as soon as–”

She rolls her eyes, and lurches over to get a plate from a nearby stool. She thrusts it into his hands. It’s been covered with a thin cloth, to keep away flies. When he lifts it, there are a few strips of bacon underneath.

“Thank you,” he says. But he doesn’t eat any. “I _am_ sorry, Alice.”

“Yeah, I got that.” She pulls out the blue cloth with the tongs, and dunks it into a huge bucket of cold water, swirling it clockwise to set.

“No, look. Me leaving like that made it seem like I was… like I thought you were… that I didn’t accept how you want to live your life. And that’s not true. I accept you. Completely, okay? Me running out on you wasn’t… I should’ve just swallowed my feelings, and let you explain.”

“I don’t need to explain,” she says, glaring at him.

“I agree. Sorry. Bad choice of words.” He scoots to the edge of the seat. “What I mean is, I, I was too caught up in my own head. You were right, when you said I wanted something from you. And that wasn’t fair. To just expect you to fit into this hole in my life. And then to run out on you when you were just being honest with me.”

The wood in the hearth snaps. Quentin feels the sweat on his arms stick to his sleeves.

If he’d known everything that was to come, after he left that day, would he have stayed in that stairwell? He tries to imagine that other life, but finds he can’t. He doesn’t want to go back. To return to the man he was that day. That man wasn’t a necessarily bad person, but he wasn’t a whole person, either. Even though he’s shattered now, he’d become whole again after he ran down those stairs, even for a brief time.

Alice raises the navy linen out of the bucket, and brings it over to a press. As she turns the handles, grunting with the effort, the blue water gushes out, draining into another bucket below a spigot.

“This hole in your life,” she says after a beat, “did we have to be sleeping together for you to tell me about it? Couldn’t you have just trusted me? Maybe even gotten some help with it, outside of my bed? Couldn’t you have just let me in, as a friend?”

The trickling water reminds him of the dark current of the Thames at night. Of being rowed back to the city, after pouring his heart out to a beautiful, masked angel.

He doesn’t quite have an answer for her. To some degree, she’s got a point. There are different kinds of intimacy, of closeness. Trusting her with T – T – Teddy, and Arielle, and his lifelong battle with pessimism, wasn’t a condition for them sleeping together exactly. He’d trusted Margo with all that just fine.

Then again, it’d taken several years, mistaken identities, threats of death, discovering what it means to love again, and some matrimonial complications on both sides, for him to trust one other person _besides_ Margo, so….

“Maybe,” he says, trying to give as honest an answer as he can manage. “Or at least, maybe some of it. Other parts… well, at the end of the day, I want something that you don’t, just like you said. And I’ve seen what happens, when one person’s so determined to get what they want, that they don’t care whose lives get ruined because of it. I’d never want that to happen to you.”

“You’d never ruin my life, Q,” she scolds him.

“I know.” He offers her an empty smile. “You wouldn’t let me if I tried.”

He means it as a compliment. Because he knows how amazing, strong, _unyielding_ she is.

But he always forgets how soft she can be, too. She takes her hands off the press, and goes over to brush his hair out of his face. “More like I don’t think you _could_ ruin someone’s life. That’s not the kind of person you are.”

How she can be so certain of that…. It’s too much for him to grasp. Too many memories swim in front of his eyes for him to count. Any one of them could easily prove her wrong. “I don’t know. Have you heard some of the things I’ve done lately?”

Alice’s face falls a little. She goes to say more, but footfalls start thumping down the stairs on the other side of the room. Kady’s massaging her shoulder as she reaches the bottom step, like she’d slept on it wrong in the night. Or maybe she’s still favoring it, after her run in with Marina.

Q rises from his seat when Kady spots him. Her eyes narrow, and she tsks when she sees the plate of bacon in his hands. “Spent what I gave you already?” she accuses. “Came begging for some breakfast scraps this morning, mut?”

“He came to see me,” Alice says, before Q can answer for himself. “We cleared up a few things.”

“’Bout time.” Kady marches over to a bowl of apples and snags one for herself. She shines it on her burgundy leather sleeve, and bites off a chunk. She finds a spot in the counter free of costumes, and leans against it, staring at him pointedly while she chews.

“How’s Penny?” Alice asks, before the awkward silence stretches on too long.

Kady swallows, and looks back at the stairs. “Worried,” she observes quietly.

Quentin’s teeth clench. Even though very little is being said, it still feels like he’s listening in on a conversation he shouldn’t be. He’s done nothing but intrude on their lives, one way or another. Wanting Alice to leave Kady. Worming his way into their theater company. Even making Penny protect him, in his own way. Yeah, Quentin’s done enough damage here.

“I’ll get you your money back,” he says. Self-consciously, he hands Alice her plate. “Might take me a bit. If you need it now, tell me what else I can do, and I’ll, um, try to make it up to you that way.”

Kady takes another bite of the apple. She leaves him waiting, as she crunches the piece between her teeth. “I’m sure I’ll think of something,” she says when she’s finished. Then she dismisses him with a wave.

He bows his head. He takes a few steps towards the door, but Alice brings him up short.

“Penny told us about yesterday.”

Even with heat roasting the air in the room, a deep, cold sensation claws its way down his back. “Told you,” he mutters, closing his eyes. “I ruin things.”

Alice and Kady exchange a look. Kady looks down, tossing the fruit back and forth. As she watches the apple, contempt lies heavy in her voice as she says, “We sent word yesterday, to the other companies. That Kline girl’s been blacklisted.”

He appreciates that. Sort of. As much as The Blackspire, The Whitespire, and all the other theaters in the city constantly compete with each other, they’re also a part of the same family. They all love the trade, the calling, to bring plays to life. They’d never take that away from one another, no matter the rivalries. Betraying that trust, getting a theater shut down just to settle a personal grudge, doesn’t come without consequences. Poppy will never set foot on stage again.

But there’s not really any satisfaction in the news either. After what he’s lost… after the look in Eliot’s eyes, when he realized that they’d never see each other again, because Quentin should have been more careful… he can’t bring himself to delight in anyone’s punishment, no matter whose it is.

He turns his head and nods at Kady, acknowledging what she did for him all the same. He makes for the exit one more time, knowing there’s nothing else they can say to each other right now.

“Q, wait.” Alice shuffles around the chairs of costumes toward Kady. She snatches the apple out of her hands, and sets it down on the counter. As she takes both of Kady’s hands in hers, and stares at her for a long moment, Kady seems about as confused as Quentin is watching them. But she trusts Alice, staying quiet, while she works out whatever’s on her mind.

Quentin starts to feel the locks of his hair stick to his scalp. Another log in the hearth pops.

“That stakeholder Hoberman found,” Alice says finally, not taking her eyes off of Kady’s, “any chance she’s the kind of person who’d be willing to split profits?”

It takes Quentin a moment to realize the question’s more for him. “I’m not sure. With the theater shut down, she’s lost any income she was gonna get out of it, so…” He winces, remembering all the times Marina hinted how violently Josh was being treated. Even though they’d all decreed she was “one of the family,” his hateful imagination decides now’s the perfect time to wonder if he’ll discover Josh’s body in a ditch later, after Marina’s finished with him.

“So,” Alice continues, glancing at him, “is your play just as good as your last one?”

“Better,” he says instantly. He considers taking it back. Considers being humble and penitent and honestly fuck all that, yes it is. It’s the beauty of all life, motherfuckers, and he’s lost the incandescently beautiful partner he’d built it with, tile by tile, because bullshit destiny decided ripping them apart in the most devastating way possible was more important than anything else.

Shit, he is going to fall to pieces in the middle of this fucking kitchen if he’s not careful. If he doesn’t get his damn heart under control again.

“Okay, so you have a play.” Releasing Kady’s hands, Alice then makes a single suggestion to the two of them, like it’s so damn obvious. “And the Chamberlain’s Men have a theater.”

Quentin’s jaw drops. Kady rounds on him, like he somehow put Alice up to this.

Alice steps between them. “Think!” she shouts. She darts a glance at the stairs, then lowers her voice. “A _new_ Coldwater play – which has even _more_ drummed-up interest around it now, since it’s already shut down one theater – is being put up after all at The Blackspire – a theater already known for producing work that pushes the boundaries. On top of all that, two well-known companies – the Chamberlain’s Men and the Admiral’s – have put aside their differences for this _particular_ show.” She gestures at the two of them. “Come on! If you start putting up notices now, the whole city will know about it by the time it opens Saturday. There won’t be an empty seat in the house.”

It’s insane. It’s beyond madness.

It just might work.

Quentin doesn’t want it to work. Not without Eliot.

But Kady’s thinking it over, hard. The gears are turning in her head. She pokes her tongue into her cheek, holding back a smile. Then she straightens up from the counter, and shakes her head as she kisses Alice’s nose. “Remind me why you aren’t running my whole company by now?”

“So you never know what I’m really capable of,” Alice quips. She’s blushing a little, but smirking wickedly too.

The sight almost makes Q want to smile. Like their affection’s a rosy cloud, settling over the room, relaxing all the tension in the air. Even the jumpiness he’s felt since yesterday starts to fizzle out of him. Despite all the places that the “civilized” world has sunk its claws into, here is this little pocket of love, between these two women. Through his ever-present numbness, he’s happy for them. There’s no envy or resentment. He’s glad they have each other, plain and simple.

Kady ties her hair up in a loose bun. Grabbing her apple again, and snagging some bacon off the plate, she starts for the door. “Alright, Coldwater, The Blackspire’s yours. Let’s get her open for you.”

She’s already past him and marching down the street before he can answer. Biting his lip, he meets Alice’s eyes again across the room.

“You didn’t have to do that,” he says, looking a gift horse so far in the mouth, it’s turning into a trip to the dentist.

The greyness is already back, scraping at the edge of his vision. The howling storm won’t stay on the far-off horizon forever. He can be glad all he likes. There’s still someone missing. Someone who’ll _always_ be missing. The hole in his heart was filled for a time…and then there was a sinkhole beneath, a cave in, and it got even wider.

* * *

[ ](https://yourtinseltinkerbell.tumblr.com/post/630338796509102080/the-greyness-is-already-back-scraping-at-the-edge)

* * *

Alice goes back over to dunk the next cloth into the cauldron of dye. “Maybe,” she says. “But it’s done now.”

The clouds thin across the sky for a moment. Not enough to show any blue, but the room brightens, catching the strands of her golden hair, making it shine. He can’t help it, he stares. Marvels. That she can see a way through this chaos, so clearly, so easily, while he’s never really stopped drowning.

“Can I make things up to you?” he asks softly. “Is there anything I can–”

“You can go make sure your play actually happens.” She straightens her spine to look back at him. “I’d like to see what your latest muse helped you come up with.”

Is it possible to feel shame and pride all at once? To feel one emotion crawl inside your very spine, while the other sends your heart thundering against your breastbone. He’s never known Alice to be a truly malicious person. Is this her way of teasing him about his mistakes? Encouraging him to just get over himself, and let the past go? While also celebrating how it changed him, made him better?

He doesn’t know if he’s strong enough to withstand any of that. But what other choice does he have? Or rather, what other choice can he live with making?

He smiles hollowly. “Make sure Kady gets you a good seat, then.”

She waves at him with a wry twiddle of her fingers, then shoos him out the door.

He almost doesn’t continue down the street. His long list of apologies now has an addendum: convince everyone to still be a part of this insane venture. That’s a lot to do, all at once.

Some of them, at least, will brush it all under the rug, solely because the play’s going up after all. After his fuck-up, he went out of his way to get them another theater. It’s not the truth, not exactly, but that’s how they’ll see it. They’ll still get their fame, and a little fortune. He might even be able to gather enough of them together to start rehearsing again, as soon as this afternoon.

First, though, he has to save Josh. Marina probably has him in her clutches right now. He heads for The Hare on the Ass, and the shredded tatters of his luck hold. They’re both at the bar. Josh is physically in one piece, all his limbs intact. Surprisingly, Margo’s there too, holding a drunken Marina back from downing another cup of wine. Two bottles on the counter are already empty, one knocked on its side and rolling across the stained wood. Josh hiccups as Q takes another step into the tavern. He’s got two nearly empty bottles of his own, although one seems to belong to Henry Fogg, whose slumped over on a stool in his sleep.

Quentin starts to suspect he’s walking into a pity party.

“I couuuuld’ve been greeeaaat,” slurs Marina.

“Yeah, yeah,” Margo mutters, and she hoists her up so she doesn’t fall off her stool.

Quentin’s inner thespian can’t resist. The dramatic timing’s too good. “You still can be,” he calls out to them.

He doesn’t quite get the reaction he was expecting. Marina flicks her eyes over to squint in his direction. “Pete, kill ‘m.”

Quentin doesn’t move an inch. “I got Kady to lend us The Blackspire, for _Brian and Nigel_.”

Margo finally turns. A million things pass across her face. She loosens her grip on Marina, whose apparently been shocked into awareness enough to stand on her own two feet. Pete retreats back into the corner he was skulking in.

Q repeats Alice’s argument to the crowd. Delight grows on Marina’s face the more he goes on. She commands that Pete run over to the nearest print shop, to commandeer the press for the rest of the day. The details of splitting the profits seem to be slipping her mind for the moment, at least. She then grabs Josh and Fogg, and demands they go hunt down the rest of the company. Hello, they’ll need everyone to move everything! Their props aren’t gonna move from one theater to the other by themselves!

“Bribe ‘em with drinks, here, after, if y’ have to. I gotta go get m’ knight,” she says. She sprints towards the back stairs, tripping a few times as she scrambles up them. Pete helps her the rest of the way, while Josh and Fogg lurch around Quentin, and stumble out the door.

That just leaves him and Margo. Without a word, she points at the same table they’d sat at a few nights ago. And she doesn’t join him after he sits. She just keeps him waiting there. Unlike it was with Alice, there’s no room to be timid and delicate here.

“Uh, so, how many ‘I told you so’s do I have coming for me?” he says.

“Q, you can’t count that high.”

She’s talking to him. That’s a start. “You wanna get started now?”

Her eyes widen. She scoffs loftily. “What, like you _haven’t_ been reprimanding yourself since yesterday? Mine are just gonna get drowned out.” Grabbing Marina’s cup off of the bar, she takes a slow sip, her eyes boring into him.

He worries his bottom lip, exhaling through his nose. If he thought he could escape falling apart in front of Alice, he’s not sure he can fool himself into keeping it together with Margo. And she’ll hate him if he does break down. Again.

He starts rising off of the bench, rubbing his forehead, keeping his eyes downcast. “Well, I’ve got a few other people to say sorry to, so you’re welcome to spring them on me–”

“Shut the fuck up and sit the fuck down.” She goes and presses him back into his seat. She pulls up a bench from another table, sliding it across the floor with a horrid scraping sound. It practically bars the way out. “You’re gonna be useless until you answer a few questions for me.”

“Useless?” His eyes are starting to burn. There’s this pathetic urge, wrapping its coils around his chest, to crawl under the table like a child under their bed. “Okay. Fire away then,” he smiles bitterly.

“Is Benedick that hot noble you met a few weeks ago?”

He tries to turn away, but she slides her hand over his, and he shudders.

“I’m not blind, Q. Unless you decided to take a page from my book? You don’t get all lovey-dovey for one guy, and then start eye-fucking and then _actually_ fucking another one. One who happens to be the lead of your own show.”

He swallows, and mumbles, “I didn’t know it was him at first.” Like that’d remotely start explaining things.

She levels a glare at him. “And the second you figured it out, what then? Did your dick and your head magically swap places?”

“No.”

“Uh, yeah. They did. And exactly the wrong person found out because you weren’t careful.”

“Fine,” he spits out. “What else can I say? I’m sorry for finally letting someone back in? For trusting my heart to someone who’s willing to put up with my shit?”

“I’m not saying you need to be sorry about _that_ –” she snarls.

“Well I guess I do! Judging by the mess I made!”

He doesn’t mean to get this worked up. But he’s fucking miserable and angry and he knows he won’t hurt her with his words and she’s the only person that makes him feel safe enough to break down around, even if she hates all this crying shit.

“Because that’s the way the world works! I have to be sorry for _loving_ someone! _All the fucking time_. I have to be sorry for. Who. I. _Am_. So I’m sorry! I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry!” He slams his hand down on the table. “I’m sorry for loving someone that’s getting married in two days to a greedy witch who’s shipping them off to the end of the world. And I’m sorry for not telling him about my past and for letting him think I was dead and then telling him about my son and trying to _show him how much I loved him_ , before he was _ripped_ away from me before we had the chance to fucking say GOODBYE!”

Margo’s face has turned to stone. He gasps, hating that he’s robbed her of words. He’s vomited his pesky _feelings_ all over the place, and she can’t be expected to clean up after him. Not when that’s all she does. He shields his eyes with one hand, squeezing his knee like it was his own skull, like he could crush it in his hands and just end all this misery.

She takes that hand away. Her palm is warm. Unlike the heat from Alice’s fire, it doesn’t burn.

“ _Love_? Shit...” Her voice is low, almost empty. “You know, I was just thinking: I’d never seen you like that. Ever since I met you.” She squeezes his knuckles. “So that’s why you looked so happy.”

Sure.

Mostly.

Yes.

And now he has no chance of ever feeling that way again.

“So you gonna wallow, or you gonna stop being useless, and take all that shit, and give it to Brian?”

Quentin’s face crumbles, as he looks up at the ceiling and around the room.

“Yes, you can,” she says, reading him like a book. “You have to. You are gonna honor every ounce of the work Ben– your noble–”

“Eliot.”

“ _Eliot –_ did for this. Did for _you_.” She stands up, and pulls him to his feet. “You made something. Something that feels more real than anything I’ve ever been a part of.” There’s some wetness in her eyes, but she doesn’t wipe it away. “And if there is one thing I will _end_ you for being sorry for, it’s that. You’re going to bring your play to life if it kills you. It’s your best. It’s going to outlive all of us. It’s going to show the world what it puts us through, and it’ll make _them_ feel sorry for once. And maybe it’ll reach other people like us. And show them they don’t have to be sorry either. That they can be proud of loving who they love, even for a little while.”

It’s not a speech that fills him with hope or courage. It’s more like a war song, one hummed by soldiers before a battle they’re not sure they’ll survive. But it’s an objective. One he can put actions behind. And if those don’t work, he can try other tactics – try anything – until that objective is met. He’s a good actor, he can pull it off. If he truly is the poet that captured Eliot’s heart, he has to protect whatever pieces of that heart are left. He meets Margo’s eyes, promising without words.

They head out of the bar together, and find the company at The Whitespire. Almost everyone’s there, and those who aren’t show up eventually, once they’re found. As they carry out furniture, banners, weapons, half-sewn costumes, and one stack of tiles after the other, Quentin almost steps forward to gather the company together. Other times, like when they break for lunch, he nearly pulls one or two of them off to the side, to start making his apologies again. Margo stops him, always.

She tells him they’ll think what they want, no matter what he says. Can’t he see? They’ve already made their choice. They’re here. They don’t need to be won over with words. The play comes first, to all of them. As it must. Especially now.

And it’s true. He lives for the play, now. For those moments when he forgets himself. Becomes someone else. Experiences things he’ll never get to otherwise.

Rehearsal starts, and he pushes through the discomfort, the gaucheness, of stepping onto the stage as the lead in his own show. Margo’s right: the cast’ll think what they will. He’s not Eliot; he’s well aware of that. They’re being forced to adapt to his version of Brian instead. To adapt everything they’ve built up ‘til now. But he’s got the lines down. It only takes him a few run-throughs before he’s got the blocking memorized too. The company sees that. Sees him making the effort, hour after hour. That’s good enough for now.

Even still, it’s like retracing Eliot’s steps, every time. He can feel him in the rhythm of the poetry, in the crosses and counter-crosses, in the exits and entrances, in the steps he takes, in the gestures he makes. The ghost of him settles in Quentin’s sinews. More than once, he expects to see him enter from an arch, saying any one of the many speeches they’d practiced together. Quentin goes home at the end of the day, and collapses into that haunting scent of him in his pillow. He’s exhausted enough to shed only a few allotted tears, wondering if Eliot’s doing the same, right now, across the river.

Friday nearly breaks him. The stage-keeper and the book-keeper have somehow wound up with older scripts. He tries not to lose it after they get angry at him for revealing there're two more scenes they have to keep track of. And it’s _those_ two scenes, so it’s not like he can just tell them the play’s fine without them. Then, the key to restore magic goes missing. One of Margo’s axes breaks. Mike makes one wild swing with his fists during the final act, which sends him crashing halfway down the trapdoor. Margo keeps ducking out the back every chance she gets, to go flirt with strangers in the street, missing every one of her cues. They barely manage to run the show three times. Timing it with an hourglass, their fastest run is well over three hours.

Josh rallies them at the end. At least all that bad luck happened during Final Dress, and not during the actual performance, right? Tomorrow, they _will_ get all the applause they’re due! They’ll be renowned across the city, and go down in history as the finest players in the world!

Quentin’s heartbeat drowns out Josh’s words the whole time. His eyes keep drifting to the left, seeing past the walls, to look towards the river.

He could go. Now. Fuck, why hasn’t he gone sooner. Begged Margo for a shilling. Or fucking swam there with just his own twiggy arms for oars. He could climb back up that balcony, fall on his knees, and beg Eliot to come back with him. To run away with him, back to Stratford-on-Avon, or away to France with Seb, or anywhere. Anywhere they could just _be together_.

But would things be any different? Through all of the arguments he’s tried, Eliot’s banked the fire of his hopes with sobering practicality every time. What could Quentin say now, that he hasn’t said already? What hope could he offer, when nothing’s worked yet?

All he has is those same stale words: that he loves him, that they belong together, that they make each other happy.

And if – no, _when_ Eliot imparts another reason why it won’t work, they’ll just have to separate again, and he won’t survive it. He knows himself well enough for that.

Their last goodbye will have to be enough. They both have their memories. Their work. Their poetry. Eliot will carry it with him across the sea, and Quentin will bring it to life tomorrow, and the day after that.

He doesn’t cry this time, when he heads off to bed. Brian deserves to shed those tears in his place.

Like he does every Opening Day, Quentin rises with the sun. He feels that familiar buzzing in his chest. His heart’s racing, even as he methodically ties his hair out of his eyes, and slowly makes his way downstairs. He knows that nothing he thinks of can calm it. But that’s alright. He’s missed this anticipation. That readiness for anything. It’s like an old comrade. Or perhaps, even older. Like a friendly will-o’-the-wisp in a dark forest. He knows it will hold his hand the whole time, and won’t leave him until he’s reached his journey’s end, on that stage, with hundreds of people staring at every move he makes.

When he saw his first play, all those years ago, he understood why the Greeks loved it so much. Why it was sacred to them. As close to a religious experience as he’s ever gotten.

Feeling all those people in the audience with him. Breathing, laughing, thinking, crying, cheering. Hearing them talk about what it _meant_ to them, afterwards. How some hated it, and some loved it. How some were confused, and some insisted _they_ knew all the answers and would explain everything. And best off all, seeing a story come to life. Getting lost in it, in a completely different way than he did when reading a book.

* * *

[ ](https://yourtinseltinkerbell.tumblr.com/post/630338778696990720/feeling-all-those-people-in-the-audience-with-him) [ ](https://yourtinseltinkerbell.tumblr.com/post/630338778696990720/feeling-all-those-people-in-the-audience-with-him) [ ](https://yourtinseltinkerbell.tumblr.com/post/630338778696990720/feeling-all-those-people-in-the-audience-with-him)

* * *

With the best books, time falls away. But at any point, for whatever reason, you can put the book down, leave it for another time, revisit it another day once you’ve reached the end. With a play, it’s literally alive. And it’s never the same twice. Ever. As much as an actor can memorize something until their brain melts out of their ears? There’s always the chance some _tiny_ thing could make them forget the next line. So they skip ahead, to say something they do remember, or they make up something entirely unpredictable, right on the spot. One single phrase can be a life-changing revelation one day, and be meaningless the next. One audience might laugh at a funny line, and another will stay completely silent, and yet another laughs at something that’s not meant to be funny at all. A fight can go wrong, or it might be the best version it’s ever been. A character cries one day, and tomorrow their eyes are dry.

Blink, and you might miss it. Miss any little thing. A few hours later, it’ll be over forever.

Until the next one.

And that’s saying nothing of _being_ on that stage. Being one of the people responsible for bringing it to life. Sometimes, you find yourself genuinely thinking your character’s thoughts, without even meaning to. You find all these obstacles getting in the way of what they – of what _you_ – want. You end up trying, _so hard_ , just like you do in real life, to get around them, so you _can_ get what you want. Even if you fail, in the end, _trying_ is what’s most important.

Then, on top of all that: knowing that everyone in the audience _wants_ something from you. To learn. To alleviate boredom. To find hope again. To let out all these emotions they’ve been keeping secret inside.

Admittedly, it’s a complete paradox: the confidence that fills Quentin up on stage. Stumbling his way through a conversation, through making a single easy decision, is a standard of his everyday life in the real world.

But put him up on a raised platform with hundreds of people watching him, and he’s brave enough to do anything.

Sure, it’s rehearsed. It’s all a lie. But it’s a lie anyone can believe in, if they want to.

Today’s lies will make him forget. Forget about a ship waiting in the harbor. About the church bells that’re going to clang in celebration, before the day’s over. And the vows that’ll be said. And the hearts that will never heal. He’ll forget it all for a little while. That’ll be enough. He’ll fall on his knees before _that_ altar, if no others. Pray for that miracle of forgetting, if nothing else.

After a quick stop by the barber, and offering free admission to his play today as payment, he leaves with smooth cheeks and a whiff of perfume dabbed on his neck and underarms. Some urchin is hammering Marina’s leaflets on every door and noticeboard out in the street. The girl’s bag is overflowing with posters, and some of them get caught up by a strong wind. They fly away into the sky, spreading their word far and wide.

The theater’s already open by the time he gets near. The Blackspire is just a tad grander than its sister across the river. The paint shines a bit brighter, the wood creaks less, the thrust stage still has some polish on its boards that hasn’t quite been scuffed away.

All of their costumes, every finished stitch, hang on their own hooks backstage. Quentin’s is subtle. Barely kingly. Deep blue breeches, tough leather boots. A subtly-lighter blue waistcoat with a delicate silver trim, and a doublet with leafing along the sleeves. It’s the finest thing he’ll ever wear. He avoids putting it on for as long as possible.

The others drift in, lively and nervous. Some are a little peaky around the eyes. Ess keeps fiddling with his coattails, and none of Micah’s jokes get more than a smile out of him. Harriet plants herself before the mirror at the makeup table, and she practices her signs for the Prologue until her hands start shaking.

Marina shows up with Pete, wheeling in a barrel full of the cheapest ale in the country. The cast descends on it like it’s the finest vintage from the Continent. Marina is already in her armor, actual chain mail that fits her dimensions perfectly. Quentin blinks a few times in surprise as she jingles around in it with ease, muttering every line under her breath as she paces.

Fight call doesn’t go well. Mike still hasn’t turned up, disqualifying all of his fights with Margo and Quentin. Bingle tries to fill in where he can, but there’s only so much he can do. He’s not the one who needs to get the movements in his body. Tick goes off about how much of a bad sign this is; how things are only going to get worse from here. Josh reassures him it’ll all turn out well.

Oh, _how_ will it? Dunno, it’s a mystery.

As they troop backstage, with the center curtains falling behind them, they all freeze at the sound of the massive doors of the public entrance groaning loudly. The first groundlings enter, lazily crossing the yard. There’s the soft _chink_ of copper pennies being dropped into the cash box. Marina starts keeping a little scrap of paper with her, scribbling on it with her kohl every so often, then crossing that out, and starting again. When Quentin glances over her shoulder, he sees it’s numbers. ~~10~~. ~~23~~. ~~59~~. ~~64~~. 146.

A lovely surprise arrives in the appearance of Plum and her band. She waves at Quentin as she climbs the stairs to the second-floor balcony. He manages to wave back just in time, thrown back to a night of dancing, and the press of one palm to another. Much to his horror, his ears start listening for church bells. He doesn’t know whether to start humming, to drown out any chance at hearing them, or to strain his ears harder, for any hint of their echo.

 ~~255~~. ~~450~~. 678.

The voices beyond the curtains are getting so loud. Hawkers have been let in, to sell pippins, nuts, ale, oranges, and gingerbread. The theater starts to feel heavier, somehow, as the second and third floors fill.

 ~~703~~. ~~774~~. 867.

Plum’s band starts to play a lively ballad. It's without lyrics, but there're lots of flutes and drums, energizing the building. The next song turns out to be the same music as that volt he was dragged into, back at the Waugh manor.

He won’t go running out that back door. He won’t. He _won’t_.

Margo emerges from the changing room, two costuming assistants trailing behind. He’s glad to feel his worries and heartache disappear for one merciful second. For the first time in ages, Margo’s elected to wear the closest thing to an illustrious ball gown she’ll allow. Still in her characteristic trousers, they’re framed by a sharply hemmed fishtail skirt, one that’s definitely going to send half the men in the audience into fits. Most of its thin, gauzy fabric is black, with a staggering array of gold trim and embroidery. Atop her head sits a vined crown, dusted with fool’s gold and inlaid with glass beads to give the illusion of jewels. She’s powdered her cheeks, lined her eyes, dabbed a dark shade on her lips. High Queen Janet the Destroyer stands before him now, fully realized. The sight of her sends a thrill through his ribs. It's the headiest feeling, standing before a character he created.

All fidelity to Her Majesty Julia the First, of course, but Quentin feels like he should be on his knees in supplication right now.

In a sultry, gleeful voice, she scolds, “King Brian, hast thou _lost_ thy royal raiments? This _peasant_ look does nothing for thy saggy asscheeks.”

Fighting against a smile, he shakes his head. “I’ve still got time.”

She rolls her eyes at his refusal to join in. “No you don’t, we go up in twenty.”

“Thank you, twenty,” a few people chant as they walk by. Zelda taps Harriet on the shoulder and passes the news along. She leaps out of her seat, nearly toppling her chair over as she rushes to her place behind the center arch. Zelda smiles fondly, the epitome of calm, and follows close behind.

Idri climbs the same stairs as the musicians. His train of peacock feathers dusts the straw covered floor behind him as he goes.

It’s all happening, right before Quentin’s eyes. Like the interlocking cogs of a riverside mill, powered by a water wheel. The currents are pushing the mechanism along, without any help or hindrance from him.

Does he want it to stop, or to continue? Let the mill produce, or jam the gears?

 ~~913~~. ~~947~~. ~~1101~~. ~~1462~~. ~~1613~~. ~~1840~~. 2381

Josh stops by, beaming from ear to ear. “You guys haven’t seen Mike, have you?”

Margo waves him along. “If he still hasn’t checked in with the stage keeper by now, he’s at the inn down the road.”

Josh ducks outside through the back door, whistling a bawdy song as he goes. Shaking her head at him, Margo checks that Jane’s outfit is ready in the quick-change room, along with her banishment robes and axes, newly repaired. Quentin doesn’t budge, refusing to take the hint, until she literally drags him over to Brian’s hook.

“I shouldn’t be here.”

“But you are.”

“He should be here, not me.”

“But he’s not.”

He puts his hands on Brian’s shoulders, as though the king was already standing before him. As if the player who truly deserves to wear them was already filling them out.

A perfectly manicured hand takes the garments off the hook, and pushes them into his arms. “Fillory’s waiting for you. Let’s play, alright?”

“Yeah,” he whispers. “Let’s play.”

When he comes out of the changing room, his own humble silver crown atop his head, Victoria sends word to Plum upstairs, so she can wind the pre-show music down.

Marina’s left her little scrap of paper behind. 2987. Almost 3000 people.

Harriet sees the paper too, as she paces. Her face goes white.

“I can’t do this,” she signs.

“Yes you can,” he says, like a total hypocrite.

“No, you don’t understand.” She squeezes her eyes shut. “They’re gonna look at me and all they’ll see is–”

He wipes everything else from his mind, for just a second, and gives her a genuine smile. He taps her on the shoulder until she opens her eyes again. “Change their minds,” he says.

He leads her back to the archway. Her hands grip his sleeve, and she fidgets as they stare at the curtain together. Trumpets declare themselves above their heads. Zelda’s still there waiting, and Quentin catches her eye. Seeing her ready nod, he puts a hand on Harriet’s back. Not pushing. Supporting. The act of actually going through the curtains is all up to her.

The audience starts to quiet. They’re still buzzing, with an empty stage and nothing happening, but they’re ready too.

Like she can feel them settling, Harriet steps forward on shaky legs, and Zelda mirrors her. The curtain parts, and swallows them whole. Caught up in the moment, he dashes over to the open arch on stage left, to peak at their progress, as they make their way to the edge of the stage.

An itch settles into his palm. His fingers want to wrap around a hand much smaller than his. And the skin on his neck hums, like it’s waiting for a smooth, steady hand to cradle his head.

The trumpets sound once more. He can feel it, in his heart. It’s like their calling him, on all those quests he’d invented long ago.

Harriet and Zelda raise their hands in tandem. And Harriet starts to sign, while Zelda recites:

_Two kingdoms, both alike in dignity,  
_ _In fair Fillory, where we lay our scene,  
_ _From ancient curse break to new mutiny  
_ _Where magic blood makes magic hands unclean.  
_ _From forth the pedagogues of these two foes  
_ _A pair of questing monarchs join their lifes.  
_ _Whose misadventured piteous overthrows  
_ _Doth with their toil bury Fillory’s strifes.  
_ _The fearful passage of their deathmark’d love.  
_ _And the continuance of their people’s rage,  
_ _Which, but their great kings’ end, naught could remove,  
_ _Is now the two hours traffic of our stage;  
_ _The which, if you with patient ears attend,  
_ _What here shall miss, our craft shall strive to mend._

They did it. They fucking did it.

Harriet beams at herself as she and Zelda take each other’s hands. They sweep out of the way as Ess and Micah charge on to begin their swordplay. The crowd cheers, recognizing their notorious faces, leaning forward to get as much of the action as they can. Sunderland and Lipson take their places Backstage Right, cueing themselves to get ready to break up the fight. Fogg’s taken up his place behind them, to follow them out in a few pages. By all appearances, he’s stone cold sober, now that he’s working again. 

Quentin bites his hip, and his eyes swim for a second. It’s happening.

“We have no Nigel.”

Right.

Well, of course. Josh would joke about something like that now, wouldn’t he?

Um.

Those whispered words are a joke, right? They have to be a joke.

Because, funny thing, there’s all these signs that Josh is telling the truth. Like how he’s out of breath, and he’s got his hat in his hands. And as hard as he’s trying to keep permanent, pesky smile on his flushed face, its turning into more of a grimace by the second.

“What do you mean we have no Nigel?” Quentin says.

Josh shrugs. “Bar fight, I think? Mike’s, uh, been taken by the city watch,”

“The _city watch_?” Q brings up his arms to hold himself together.

Shifting back on his boots, the same charred ones he’d worn for weeks now, Josh doesn’t look behind him as Margo arrives. “More like one five-finger-fillet too many,” she guesses with a disappointed sigh. “You know, the one where you lay your hand on the table? I’d see him do it almost every night. He kept making bets. And losing. And then getting upset for losing. I guess the barkeep got sick of the mess he kept making, no matter how famous he is.”

“Explaining it doesn’t exactly solve the problem,” Quentin hisses. He stares at Margo, feeling his mind turning to sludge, begging her for a way out of this. The audience laughs at a smarmy pun from Ess after Sunderland reprimands him. Quentin tears his eyes away to look at all the people out there.

What are they supposed to do now? Send Tick out, with the fucking script in his hands? The actors will drown in an onslaught of boos and jeers and half-eaten fruit.

But Margo, now of all times, apparently doesn’t have a way out. Her eyes harden, and she says, like she regrets every syllable coming out of her mouth. “Q, your entrance is on the next page.”

His stomach lurches, like he’s plummeting off a cliff. Can’t he just go running down the street, screaming for Eliot as he blitzes past every church from here to Whitehall Palace? That seems like a far more productive use of his abilities.

Josh’s grimace turns back into a smile, somehow. He pats him on the shoulder. “Go on. Nigel doesn’t come on for twenty pages. It’ll be alright.”

“ _How will it_?” he snarls, barely keeping himself from shouting.

“I have no idea!”

Before Quentin can punch that grating, wide-eyed optimism off of his face, Josh ducks away, to head up the stairs towards the audience’s third-floor balcony. And Q can’t even shout at him for it: Margo’s pushing him along, and he’s suddenly on stage, stumbling out in front of over two thousand people.

Fogg turns to him, unphased, and he bows low. “Good morrow, my lord.”

Oh God. Oh fucking Christ.

Brian. Find Brian.

There he is.

There it _all_ is. Just beneath the surface. All that frustration and despair, infecting every muscle inside him, every thought in his head. Because _nothing_ works out right, no matter how hard he tries, no matter how many times other people persuade him to keep going.

“Good morrow, wise dean,” he says. The rehearsed sigh comes out like a grumble. “Was that your staff that went hence so fast?”

“It was,” Fogg says, composed as ever. “The loss of magic hath reached our college.”

Magic. It’s everything. It’s in his words, his friends, his ex-wife, his lover, his son. Everything good in his life came from magic. From his belief in stories, and journeys, and heroics, and the impossible becoming real. Over the years, he’s lost it all. He came to the theater today hoping to escape that loss, and it found him all the same, and greedily took more. Having no Nigel will ruin everything. There’s nothing he can do about it. It’s all been out if his hands from the start, hasn’t it?

He begins his little tirade. Finally, he’s as honest with the audience as he can be. He sees Josh fumbling around up on the third-tier balcony, swerving around some late patrons. He’s aiming for Kady and Alice. They’ve reserved seats for themselves in the back, so as not to take better ones away from actual paying customers.

Oh come _on_ , Josh. It’s not like either of them can help! No one in the Chamberlain’s Men knows the lines. And they certainly can’t bust Mike out of jail in time.

Enough. He can’t do anything about it, remember? He brings his eyes back down, out of the London sky – no, away from the Fillorian stars, and he scoffs at the dean’s thinly-veiled way of escaping his complaints, as the man brings Kimber in to babysit him. He slumps to the ground, waiting for her to bat him with her book.

Meanwhile, Josh pushes past the latecomers. There’s so little foot space, he stumbles, catching himself on the back of the bench where Kady sits. What he intends to come out as a whisper ends up being more of a blurted wheedle. “Can we TALK?”

“Shhhh!” someone says behind him.

Kady flips the guy off over Josh’s shoulder, then leans in closer. That seamstress, the blonde woman Quentin was with back at Whitehall, leans close too.

“We have no Nigel,” he whispers.

“No fucking Nigel?!” Kady completely forgets to whisper.

One or two people around them turn at the sound, alarmed, and it starts a chain of rumors throughout their section. The blonde seamstress starts to placate them as best she can.

A hand taps Josh insistently on his shoulder. “What happened to Mike?” its owner says.

Josh patiently brushes the hand off. “It’s under control, sir, don’t worry.”

The hand grips him on the shoulder tightly again. Josh twists away from Kady, to confront this overfamiliar stranger, but the words die on his lips. Benedick Johnson, or whatever his real name is, sits before them. Of all the fucking miracles. His eyes rake over Benedick’s stunning, noble dress, his freshly shaved, beardless face, the gleam of a gold hoop in his ear, and a gold band around his left ring finger.

Mystery solved.

“You don’t happen to know Nigel’s part, do you?” Josh gulps, before one single ounce of reason or self-preservation finds its way back into his head.

Benedick pulls out a leather booklet from his servant’s satchel, and flips it open to reveal the script. “Every word. I haven’t put this down since Q gave it to me,” he declares. But there’s no bragging self-confidence in his eyes. He’s begging, with everything he has.

As if Josh isn’t nearly as desperate as he is.

“Great, you’re on in a few minutes.”

Benedick nods. Together, they shuffle back towards the stairs, leaving Benedick’s manservant behind. Kady follows, a litany of what-the-fucks coming out of her mouth every few steps. But Josh doesn’t answer her. He’s telling Benedick some quick, clippy facts: the Monster’s gotta be different, Margo axes him on his upstage left side, the bow has no arrows. All things he hasn’t been around to rehearse the past few days. Everything else, Josh leaves in the company’s hands. They can improvise some blocking if they need to.

On stage, Skye is finishing up Kimber’s findings. Quentin starts on his reply.

The tense trio arrives backstage, and they earn several gawks from the company as Benedick snags Nigel’s crown off the prop table. Margo’s jaw drops when she sees him. Never one to waste time they don’t have, she blows him a quick kiss, welcoming him back, as Quentin exits through the upstage left arch. The action seamlessly transitions to Scene Two, and the hunting party for the Great Cock traipses onstage.

While Josh helps Benedick with his quiver, they see Quentin puts head in his hands, his shoulders shaking. He hasn’t seen them yet. His back thuds against the closed door of the quick-change room. He slides down to the ground, hugging himself around the knees, shaking and falling apart. Benedick almost goes to him.

“Later?” Josh pleads.

Benedick looks him right in the eye, and Josh can tell he’s seconds from telling him no.

He tries another tactic. “You’ll get your chance, I promise. Act Two, right?”

Benedick swallows, pulls himself together, and nods. Margo’s annoyed summons call him through the archway, and he adopts a confident, wary stance. He jogs in, all smiles, and Janet teases him the second he arrives.

Finally, Josh lets himself feel one iota of relief.

Coming up beside him, Kady jerks her head towards the stage. “Who was that?”

“Oh, just the sodomite that got us shut down on Wednesday,” he says with a wistful smile.

“What?!”

“Okay, not really. I’m kidding. But that’s what some urchin said, and that’s what the Master of Revels believed.”

Kady’s jaw clamps shut. Her eyes scan over all the faces in the audience, like she’s checking to make sure Penny Adiyodi’s not there. “If he finds out– if _anyone_ finds out…”

Josh shrugs. “See you in jail, then.”

Her lips quirk, but she doesn’t say anything else. He’s got a point.

And Quentin? He’s curling in on himself. He waits, hollow dread building up inside him, for the voice of whoever they got to stand in for Nigel. Oh God, he can’t look. The audience hasn’t reacted yet, sure, but that’s not to say they won’t in a second. They’ll grumble. Jeer. Shout. The play’s going to end, before it’s even begun. He won’t honor everything that Eliot–

“How now, Great Cock? Whither wander you?” Eliot’s ringing, songlike voice cries to the rafters.

Quentin starts as the audience roars with laughter. He scrambles up on hands and knees, to grip the frame of the arch and peak his head out a single inch. His breath is stolen from his lungs. He doesn’t want to even _breathe in_ again. The very sound of the air filling his chest might get in the way of that voice.

Eliot’s clothes – his _wedding_ clothes, Quentin realizes with a jolt – are resplendent. A pure white ruff circles his neck. His cheeks, shiny with a little sweat, are as smooth-shaven as they’d been during their very first rehearsal day. A golden, almost regal half-cloak wraps around one shoulder, warming his complexion. His flared sleeves and breeches are the color of sunflowers, bathed in the light of their namesake, while his doublet and hose are the crimson of a cardinal’s plumage. Genuine gold buttons, adornments, and clasps speckle the velvet every few inches.

He’s a king. He’s David, he’s Solomon, he’s Alexander. And Theseus and Jason and Charlemagne. And oh, how the Fillorians adore him.

Idri’s booming answer earns such applause from the groundlings, the actors have to wait a full minute before it gets quiet enough to keep going. Their joy is Quentin’s joy. He hangs onto every word from Eliot, as he adds a suave, debonair charm to Nigel’s cadence, one that Mike had never thought to try. Of course it earns the Great Cock’s favor; it’s dripping with admiration. But Eliot doesn’t stop there. He changes his tone in the next few lines, to one of admittance, confession. Showing just a little bit of weakness. He’s only keeping up appearances with this carefree charade. He _cares_ about how Fillory won’t stay whole, without magic. He badly needs the Great Cock’s help. Otherwise, his people will continue to suffer.

The bestowed quest is well earned.

And in moments, Quentin will get to… he’ll get to…

Be with him again.

Jesus Fucking Homer Christ, he’s going to be _with Eliot again_. He wants to run onto the stage and announce it to the world. Thankfully, the scene’s already winding down. As much as he wants to watch his love act, forever, he wants something else even more.

He races over to be with Skye and Fogg. They shoot him bewildered looks, but he doesn’t have any more answers than they do about why Eliot’s here. He fixes his crown, brushes the chaotic mess inside him aside, and marches on for Scene Three.

“I learn by this letter,” Fogg announces, folding up a prop document, “that High King Nigel and his army come this night to the college.”

Skye signals to Lipson and Sunderland above their heads, and they start preparing the second story balcony like a castle's battlements before a siege, affixing bushels of arrows to the posts. “He is very near by this. He was not three leagues off when the scouts sent word,” she confirms.

Q makes a gesture with his fingers, beckoning Fogg to hand the letter over. “And who is’t riding with him now? He hath a newly sworn High Queen? A Destroyer?”

“Yea, and auguries from the mighty Cock,” Fogg says. Someone in the second-tier gallery box wolf-whistles, and the groundlings whoop and catcall. The dean goes to cast a spell to protect the college, forgetting for just a moment. A look of dismay crosses his face when, naturally, no magic comes to their aid. Quentin puts a hand on his arm, a gesture of consolation, before he holds out a prop sword for him to take. The dean, however, refuses it. “You embrace this charge too willingly. I was not born under a warring planet.”

Suddenly, the band aloft announces the High Majesties, but it’s Quentin’s heart that flutters at the fanfare, not Brian’s. A stream of guardsmen – Zelda, Harriet, Rafe, Abigail, Victoria, Bingle, and the Admiral’s Men – all storm on with their Fillorian banners raised high. Quentin’s body practically drags him forward as the Center Stage curtains part. It’s just like he’s always been compelled to do: in the moonlight, on the dance floor, into his bed. Forward, forward, ever forward. Towards _him._ He only remembers at the last second that he’s supposed to be on his guard. He grips the handle of his sword to stop his shaking.

Margo comes first, and there’s an excited gleam in her eye that’s only partially in character. She says her lines, but they fly right over Quentin’s head as Eliot swans in, and everything stops.

If this is a dream, he never wants to wake up again. Eliot’s spectacular hazel eyes rake over him, searing themselves into Quentin’s nerves, trying to reconcile their days apart. He’s starving for every little change. He delivers some japes with Margo, making a sport of insulting the college, but nothing else distracts Eliot from what he really wants: Quentin, in his line of sight at all times.

He’s at the mercy of the script, but he doesn’t have to wait for too long. The cue line arrives, and he bellows, “I wonder that you will still be talking, discourteous royals. Nobody marks you.”

Eliot puts his tongue between his teeth. Though he looks like nothing'd make him happier than to hear Q’s voice, he pretends to glower. “What, magician king? Are you yet mewling?”

“Is it possible a cat stays mute while he has such meet milk to lap up as High King Nigel? Courtesy itself curdles to disdain when you taunt in our presence,” Quentin replies.

A flurry of Fillorians start to draw their weapons, but Margo gestures that they can put them away. “Then is Courtesy a turncoat,” she says. “But it is certain we are loved of all men, only you excepted. And I would I could find in my heart that I had not a hard heart, for truly…” and now she draws her own blade, and starts to charge him with a snarl, “I love _none_.”

All the former magicians retreat towards Stage Right in terror. Eliot claps her on the shoulder, just barely holding her back. “A dear happiness to mine ears. They would else have been troubled by a pernicious rebel.” He shoots Quentin, or, really, Brian, a pointed look. The audience is too far away to see it, but the ones who could afford them are on the edge of their seats. They can hear the warning in his tone; they all can.

Margo rises from her crouch. “I thank God and my cold blood I am of your humor for that. I had rather hear my dog bark at a crow than people swear they love me.”

Eliot steps around Margo, making it clear he doesn’t hide behind anyone. It’s not what Mike usually did in this moment, and goosebumps trail down Quentin’s spine as he gets closer. “God keep your ladyship still in that mind,” he says, then gestures at Quentin, “so some gentleman or other shall ‘scape a predestinate scratched face!”

“Scratching could not make it worse an ‘twere such a face as yours were,” Quentin fires back.

As the audience “ooooooohh”s at the insult, Eliot’s barely keeping his expression under control. He’s grinning like a wolf, and blinking so slowly, he might as well be undressing Quentin with his eyes before the whole assembly. “Well, you are a rare parrot-teacher."

“A bird of my tongue is better than a beast of yours.”

“I would my horse had the speed of your tongue, and so excellent a continuer.” Eliot licks his bottom lip, just a little, only for Quentin to see, and Quentin’s knees wobble as a fire roars in his belly.

This, all this, every second of it, is so perfect. So charged with energy and determination. His heart is galloping away, and it’s all he can do to reign it in. They may be speaking words they’ve heard dozens of times, but it still feels as fresh and new as that night when they first started devising. The other actors are caught up in it too. They draw strength from Eliot being here. He may be playing a different role, but his familiar support, his devotion to all this, never falters. No one in the ensemble fidgets, or lets their eyes drift to the side in boredom. They’re all engaged, focused, waiting for every moment they need to move or react. It’s so beautiful.

Once Nigel reveals the Great Cock’s instructions, and Brian confirms how they match Kimber’s discoveries, the parley is struck. Janet delivers her Queen Mab monologue, and she and Nigel agree to meet Brian at the once-magical clock, to start their quest for the key. Each of them say their exiting couplets, and it’s suddenly time for them to part ways.

Only now, walking towards the Upstage Right arch, it feels like swimming against a riptide. He and Eliot won’t be able to speak to each other, will they? Not really. All the Tiring House can afford them is the prying eyes of the cast – sympathetic or otherwise – and stolen, whispered exchanges. The exposed performance space is, ironically, the only place where they can live their truth, be who they truly are, say everything they can’t say.

He meets Eliot on the stage, alone, a few moments later. A door frame – empty and freestanding, with a circle atop it carved with Roman numerals and little hands pointing in two different directions – is their only other company.

They’ve dropped their weapons and set down their crowns. They are not kings, or magicians, just vulnerable men. As Nigel and Brian pass the time bickering, waiting for Janet, Quentin can’t help but see Eliot’s not wearing any of his regular rings. Instead, he’s got just one. That dreadful, solitary gold band on his left hand.

And of course, Quentin has his questions.

Did Eliot actually say his vows? How else would that ring get there? Is Quentin going to feel jealous about that, when he knows Eliot was forced to say them?

And then: why did Eliot come to The Blackspire, when he’s supposed to be leaving for Virginia? Has he run away? Why didn’t he go backstage to find Quentin before, if he’s here to stay?

But the biggest question, the most critical thing he’s ever had to ask, is how long do they have? The rest of their lives? Or only until Eliot’s caught? Or just these few hours, before he willingly goes back to his ship?

Quentin makes himself a promise right then, before too much fear can slither into his gut. He’s going to make the most of it. He’s _with Eliot_. He can’t let _anything_ get in the way of this miracle.

Tinkling bells dance below their feet, a sound effect made by Tick, Victoria, and Bingle in the stage’s underbelly. The bells ring again, louder, and now everyone in the building realizes what they are. The reverberation, the gentleness, the vitality, of magic. A glorious power breaking through the boundaries of the natural world. He and Eliot pretend like their eyes are drawn to the door frame, and they gasp in tandem, shielding their eyes as though an impossible light shines from within. People in the audience look back and forth between the characters and the clock. In real time, out of the corner of his eye, Quentin sees many of them wonder at the invisible sight… and then just _decide_ to fill in the blanks for themselves. To let their _imagination_ take over. God, that’s intoxicating. _That’s_ magic, right there.

Brian and Nigel realize they have to step through. That the clock’s power might fade any second. This quest becomes truly theirs, and theirs alone, the minute they step through the threshold.

Act Two is now Quentin’s true haven. Every worry and fear he has, they all slip away. He blinks, and the mosaic’s just _there_ before them. He blinks again, and they’ve started to dance to the band's music. His skin feels like he's been struck by lightning. This is their first go-round; they’re mostly supposed to keep to themselves. Eliot’s hands can only touch him, hold him, every so often. Each one sends butterflies pelting against his breastbone as he brushes past. _Kiss him!_ the little thrills in his chest shout. _He’s here! What are you waiting for?_

He blinks wetness out of his eyes as they circle each other. He watches Eliot’s curls sway a little with the rhythm. If only he could run his fingers through them. Cradle his head. Trace a caress down the curve of his jaw.

One look from Eliot tells Quentin he’s not alone. He’s going through exactly the same thing. He thought they’d never get this chance again. He’s hungry for him, he’s frustrated for him. He’s desperate to bring him happiness, to crawl into his lap and never leave.

Is this whole beautiful moment in time just luck? Or a cruel misfortune, and they just don’t know it yet? Right now, it’s his own damn plot separating them, of all fucking things. They have to let each other go, he knows, to duck backstage and enter again. He knows it’s just for a moment, but… oh, can’t time _cease_ here, instead of flowing on and on as he’d written it to? Must this Fillorian past pass?

The next panto begins. Quentin’d originally meant the lines to be as forceful as a runaway cart. Barreling down the road, impact inescapable at the end of the lane.

But, if they are supposed to become the very words Nigel uses to prove he’s himself later, then Quentin _has_ to make them the most important phrases in the world.

Across the mosaic, overflowing with squares, he asks, “Do you kick your tiles at me, sir?”

“I do–” Eliot’s voice almost catches in his throat. He tries again, louder. “I do kick my tiles, sir.”

“Do _you_ kick your tiles at _me._ Sir.”

 _Eliot, you being here makes me the happiest man in the world,_ he silently shouts in his head.

His love’s eyes are shining. Perhaps picking up on the subtext after all. “No, sir, I do not kick my tiles at you, sir, but I do kick my tiles, sir.”

“Do you quarrel, sir?” Quentin asks.

_In another life, would we get to live together? Grow old together? Live happily ever after?_

“Quarrel, sir?” Eliot says.

Eliot might be picking up what Quentin’s trying to say, but Quentin’s not sure he can say the same. What does that new tone mean? Confusion? Asking for forgiveness?

After a pause, one neither of them has ever done in rehearsal before, Eliot continues, “No, sir.”

“But if you do, sir,” Quentin insists, almost overriding his line. “I _am_ for you.”

Eliot swallows. His eyes dart over Quentin’s shoulder. Once. Twice.

A signal? A warning?

Shit, he’s supposed to turn around! To get ready for the fight.

Doing so only confronts him with the eyes of everyone in the audience. A sea of blinks, and white coronas, and pin-pricked pupils from the dazzling sun.

The fabric on his costume is suddenly stifling. “I serve as good a throne as you,” he says hoarsely, only he feels like he’s not saying it to Nigel. He’s saying it to them. Weakly. Defensively. For just a moment, out of his mind, he wonders why all these people are here. Why he’s at their mercy, alone, on display, about to be sentenced. Punished.

“No better,” he hears Eliot say, walking right up behind him. Eliot’s forearms, one folded over the other, settle on his shoulders. He rests his chin upon his elbow. On his Downstage Left side, not hiding his face. It’s a bold little comfort, right in the face of the audience’s attitudes.

“Yes, better, sir,” Quentin exhales, feeling Eliot’s curls tickle his cheek.

Please, El, please turn him around. Let it be just the two of them again.

“You lie,” Eliot whispers, and then his hands are on him, spinning him around. His senses are overrun with Eliot’s warmth, his strong arms holding him tight. He can breathe again, with Eliot’s heavy, honeyed musk filling his lungs as they sink down, rolling and crashing across the mosaic, toppling the towers of tiles.

He’s _touching_ him, everywhere. Oh God, his pulse is hammering through his doublet! Quentin can feel each thump, all the way through his own layers. The temperature around them skyrockets. He tries to keep his body under control, begging his cock to stay soft as their hips press flush together, nearly thrusting without meaning to. He behaves, despite all the grunts they have to fake, and every suggestive laugh they don’t. The little patches of his skin he can get away with brushing are supple, wonderfully smooth, alive and perfect. He barely keeps his mouth to himself, miracle of miracles. He knows if his lips touch him, anywhere, he won’t be able to pry them off.

But every fiber of his being, his very _soul_ , is singing. Just end him here, now, please. He’s done everything he needs to on this earth, in this lifetime. They’ve found each other again. They’re happy again. Isn’t this enough?

One final laugh, and they separate, breathing hard.

The quiet crowd shifts and mutters to around them, perhaps unsure of what it all meant. The moment’s different now. Yes, they’re supposed to get up and transition again, but there’s this compulsion inside him. To give them just a little more. To show them why it was important.

Eliot abruptly snags a tile from underneath his back, and fits it into place on the mosaic with a hearty slap. _So there, Brian._

A few people in the front row snicker.

Oh dear. What an addictive, risky incentive.

Well, Quentin’s found his own tile. He flops over, head still pressed to the mosaic, to smack his down too without looking up. Scattered chuckles echo throughout the whole theater.

Rule of three, then. He bolts up, with no idea what to do next, just knowing he and Eliot have to do _something_. This, too, never happened in rehearsals, but the audience is in the palm of their hands. Eliot straightens too, spinning on his rump until they face each other from opposite corners. Like a game of chicken, they snag tiles, and proceed to see who can slap them both down faster, trying to beat each other to it. They get the biggest laugh yet.

Still catching his breath, Eliot climbs to his feet, and helps him up too. His eyes crinkle around the edges. “Save thine overthinking for the puzzle,” he snarks. Instead of much later in the script, he’s made _this_ the first time Nigel switches to using the familiar address, instead of the formal one.

Time must pass, Quentin reflects, as they head backstage, ending this moment. They can’t stay inside only one part of the play forever. There’s more to come. More to enjoy, even if there is some destined hardship along the way. He can only make the future good-moments happen if he helps the present ones pass. If he keeps everything going.

Okay then. Onwards.

As the stagehands transition the furniture, to give them some time to change, that sunflower and cardinal doublet Eliot’s wearing poses a bit of a problem. It, and the rest of his pretty clothes, are far too complicated to change out of quickly. They have to wrap a blanket around his shoulders, a plain, shabby quilt, so the passage of many years is at least suggested.

And of course, Eliot shoots him a look of concern, before they step back out again. Quentin just nods. He knows, and he appreciates the sentiment.

But knowing what’s going to happen has never made this part any easier.

Abigail makes a lovely dance partner, all things considered. She brightens the stage just by being there, in her demure robin’s-egg-blue gown. He smiles as much as he’s able, doing her the courtesy of never once looking away, while Eliot works on the puzzle. They go through another rotation, from the foreground to behind the _scaenae frons_ , all three of them, and then he kneels before the pattern too, now at Eliot’s side. He finds Eliot’s fingers brushing his, a gesture as close to holding hands as they can get away with. He brushes his thumb across Eliot’s hand in return, as ready as he’ll ever be.

“Papa!” Little Luca calls out, running in through the center arch. Nearly everyone in the audience “aww”s at the sound. Quentin blinks away the burning in his eyes, and smiles. For a fraction of a second, he meets Eliot’s gaze, soothing his worries. Eliot’s never been a part of this moment before. Quentin intends to welcome him into it, unreservedly. Luca tackles him from behind, and he feigns falling forward in defeat.

“Nigel, I am slain!” he cries.

They seem to be full of improvisations today, why not one more?

“Worry not!” replies Eliot, not missing a beat and scooting forward to aid him. But Luca jumps off Quentin, loving this new facet to the game, and he inflicts the same fate onto Eliot. They perish together, briefly, overdramatically, before Quentin rolls over, rises, and lifts his son – his _character’s_ son, he has to tell himself that every time – high in the sky. The two of them erupt into such joyful, chest-aching laughter. Snatching Eliot’s hand, he leads him to Center Stage. The sprightly music overhead rains down from the roof, like a shower of those incandescent fireworks, at Greenwich. Luca grabs all their hands, a true Robin Goodfellow, striking up a dance in the heath with all the fairies. Quentin loses count of how many times they spin around, ever counterclockwise.

Detaching herself so gently, Abigail flits away. Whispers trail, from one end of every balcony in the audience to the other, at the sight.

Their broken circle stops spinning, and Quentin stumbles to his knees. Luca knows what to do, darting from Stage Left to Stage Right in distress. Remembering what the script says, Eliot kneels, rubbing Quentin’s back, and holds his arms wide, so Luca can crash into their embrace.

Before a single tear can be shed, they’re already moving offstage. Luca’s older brother, Lipson’s eldest son Tim, lopes on from Stage Right, slinging a satchel over his shoulders. He stalls just a little, nudging a tile atop the mosaic into place by himself, while Quentin and Eliot dab a little chalk into their hair, and change what clothes they can. Eliot emerges with a rattier blanket, while Quentin affixes a false, greying beard over his face. They enter behind Tim, walking slower to show their age, wishing him well on his undertakings.

And Quentin?

No matter how often he’s practiced this, he cries every time. His voice cracks as he asks Teddy… no, the boy, um, Tim… fuck it, _it is Teddy_ , he can’t lie to himself… to come visit soon. Unscripted words are clawing at his windpipe. If only he could beg Teddy to stay. Just a little longer. Give him just a little more time with him. Please, God, please.

He’s imagined what this would’ve been like, if it were real, too many times to count. This is exactly how old Teddy would have been, now. This is what Teddy always deserved. To reach an age where he was ready to see what the rest of the world had to offer. Whether that meant exploring its nooks and crannies, or finding a profession, or finding love... _An_ _ything_ , so long as it made him _happy._ He’d deserved it all. Always.

Tim, bless him, always weathers Quentin’s tears with a quiet, fond grace. His brother Luca may see his time on the stage as a way to make his parents proud, or his friends jealous, or as a game where he gets all the attention he wants. Tim, meanwhile, has never asked, but Quentin's seen a level of understanding in his face, every so often. His hugs are gentle, appreciative, sympathetic. If Quentin holds on to him for a second too long, Tim never complains. They part too soon, but he always waves at him before he exits.

And Eliot? He does what Mike was never considerate enough to do. He lays a hand on Quentin’s shoulder. When Quentin turns his head, Eliot’s eyes are shining again, blinking back his own tears. Eliot draws Quentin into a hug without a word, wrapping his blanket around him so it covers them both. Quentin buries his face in his neck, and lets out one sob. Eliot then makes another little change: they exit the stage as close together as they can be, instead of parting.

Quentin can feel it, somehow, as they change into their characters’ oldest selves. The lines between actor and character seem to be blurring by the minute. Eliot may have said, once, that he’d never thought about being a father, but his investment in these moments is as plain as day. All of Eliot’s walls are down right now. He’s not maintaining some kind of distance from the situation, so he doesn’t get hurt. This part has given him the freedom, for the first time in his life, to experience all of this. Having a family, with someone he cares about. Seeing what this life would do to him, as a person. What it would make him feel and see. The kind of man he'd become. What kind of father he'd be.

So when Nigel dies, just a little while later, Quentin’s never been more glad he only has to say a handful sentences to Jane Chatwin, before she leaves with the key. He chokes up; hating his plot, hating himself. Looking at this empty stage, this now empty life, with Eliot’s prone body just yards away. His darkness rears its head, clamping its poisoned fangs into his mind. He’s the one who wrote Nigel’s death into being, no one else. Hasn’t he always enticed – or tormented – Eliot, with some virtual life that can never happen, not really?

It is better that Nigel rejects Brian, he decides, once they’re back to being their younger selves in Act Three. Quentin hasn’t earned the right to get an entirely happy ending, when this is all over. Eliot’s always continued to remind him of that, hasn’t he, all this time? Even if he’s here now. One last romp, before he sets sail. Maybe that’s what he’s been trying to say, backstage, at the end of each scene, when they only have a second or two to spare before they’re on again. Quentin’s wanted to speak to him too, ever since he laid eyes on him earlier. But it’s getting harder to think of what to say first. What would be _right_ to say first. Is he even allowed to ask half the things he wants to know?

No. He deserves the purgatory of The Castle at the End of the World. He can at least relieve the knight there of her duty. Give her the chance to live her own life, after being trapped for so long.

He, Nigel, and Janet enter on the second story balcony, and Ora meets them there. Stage fright is a sight to behold on Marina’s face. It’s only there for a moment, but her eyes grow wider than saucers, as she stares at all the people in the audience. She says half of her lines an octave higher than usual. They patiently ease her through it, keeping her focused on the action, instead of all the people she’s never performed in front of before. Pointing out the lock on a lifeless fountain, where Nigel and Janet can use the magic key, she beckons Brian to follow her. They climb down to the ground floor, and meet Rafe there. He's playing the young man currently possessed by The Monster.

“Wilt thou play with me?” he asks, smiling, sounding a score of years younger than he is.

The audience stirs, unnerved by this use of the too-familiar “thou”. One of the groundlings points up to the second story, and soon all eyes are on Eliot, and his taut bow, aiming right for The Monster. There’s no arrow held to the string, but when Quentin cries out for him to stop, Bingle then hits a pillow with a walking stick beneath the stage. The muffled _thump_ is Rafe’s cue to collapse like he’s been hit.

Quentin’s anger – never gone for long, always looking for a new target, either at himself or in the world around him – finds an unwitting outlet here. Nigel – and by extension Eliot, he hates himself to admit – bears the brunt of it. Quentin finds the pitch of his voice becoming harsh and accusatory, before he can get a hold of himself. Nigel is _robbing_ Brian of his self-inflicted punishment. His martyrdom for the benefit of others, which stories so often laud and praise. Isn’t that what Eliot’s doing here too? By showing up at the last moment, saving this play from chaos and calamity, when he’s just going leave him when it's all over?

Naturally, Brian’s martyrdom increases tenfold, when a little, near invisible fishline from backstage drags a golden sheet out of Rafe’s jacket. Like it’s moving on its own, the shimmering cloth crawls upstage, tugged by Harriet behind the curtain. And when Nigel descends onto the ground floor, and gets too near it, caught in the heat of their argument, one touch of the golden sheet sends him reeling, screaming in terror, clutching it to his foot as he falls through the Center Stage curtains.

Goosebumps stampede down Quentin’s entire body as Eliot emerges a second later. He’s combed his dark black locks down in front of his face. His posture is stiff as a board, his gait gliding and smooth. Nigel has lost control of his body. Trapped inside the very thing that was going to keep Brian prisoner.

“Wilt thou play with me?” Eliot asks. He snags Quentin around the wrist, to a cacophony of gasps from the audience, and then drags him backstage too.

As Act Four begins, they finally have a chance to breathe. Margo’s got command of the stage now. They only have to appear for two scenes a bit later, to show The Monster’s wrath and to establish Nigel’s still alive. Then Janet has her quest for the axes, where Eliot pops in at the very end. And then...Act Five.

As they make way for others to get in their places, he and Eliot are treated to silent claps and pats on the back. From Josh, from Kady, and all the rest of the cast. Skye nearly squeals as she takes their hands, dancing in place, thanking Quentin for trusting her with all this. Everyone’s so thrilled for them, amazed by all the little ways the play is going so well. They’re at an hour and forty-five minutes of runtime, Zelda whispers, and they all whoop as loudly as they can get away with.

Confronted with all these people, the last of Quentin’s energy leeches away from him, and he sags. Eliot props him up, and after he begs their leave, he leads Quentin over to the empty prop workshop.

Closing the door halfway, so they can still hear the dialogue onstage, Eliot goes to say something, but his face falls. Quentin tries too, only to be hit with that same, nameless feeling. Words suddenly seem hard to come by.

Just to be able to do _something_ , to touch him lovingly _somehow,_ Quentin hands Eliot a linen napkin from a drawer, to wipe the sweat off his brow. Eliot returns the kindness by getting them both a cup of ale from Marina’s cask, to soothe their parched throats. They lean against the countertop together, soaking up each other’s company, but hindered by each other’s silence.

Maybe he can start with something easy.

“How’d, uh, how'd you even know we were here? At The Blackspire?” Quentin asks, his voice raspy and low.

Swallowing his ale, Eliot looks down into the swirls of his cup. “Posters were on the ground, outside the church. We came out. After. And I was climbing into Fen’s carriage. She was working the crowd, bidding everyone goodbye. Telling they’d be welcome in Virginia. That's when I saw it, under my foot. I had to pick it up – just to make sure, you know – And I looked at Todd and… then we just… slipped out the other door, and ran here. I, uh. I promised Todd I’d pay him back the entrance fee.” He snorts, but it turns into an admiring smile. “Getting this place must’ve been hard. What’d you end up promising Orloff? Indentured servitude?

But the only thing that Quentin takes away from all that is: “So you’re married. Officially.”

Eliot’s jaw snaps shut. He finishes his cup and sets it down. “Officially.”

Quentin cards his hands through his sweaty hair. “Fen’ll send men after you. ‘Til she finds you.”

“And my father’ll send his own men, to join the hunt,” Eliot confirms casually. Like it’s no inconvenience whatsoever. Until his face twists, like he’s eaten something foul and bitter. “Like I’m a prized hart.”

Quentin groans. “Is that a pun?”

“No, why?”

“If I didn’t want to strangle you right now, I’d say something worse.”

“Like what?”

“Like, ‘I’ve always prized your heart.’”

“God, that’s gross,” Eliot scoffs.

He abruptly turns, pinning Q to the counter, kissing him hard. Quentin melts, fisting Eliot’s luxurious doublet, feeling the velvet wrinkle in his hands, and the cold press of gold on his knuckles. Oh thank Heaven. Thank the angels and the saints and the fucking devils too, if he has too. He kisses Eliot back, liquid, weak in the knees, letting Eliot take everything he wants. He slips his tongue in, his lips so tender and smooth. A thousand declarations of love, pressed into his flesh. If it were up to him, he would live in his heart, die in his lap, and be buried in his eyes. He realizes his eyelashes are damp. Every time he blinks, little flicks of wetness pepper Quentin’s cheeks.

He feels him shudder. Eliot breaks their contact to kiss Quentin on the forehead, before he presses both of theirs together, and they breathe. Just breathe.

He grips Eliot’s clothes tighter, tempted to rip them off entirely. “God, why the fuck are you here? Why’d you come?”

“I _couldn’t_ stay away.”

“But how long do you think we have, El?”

“I don’t know.” Eliot pulls away, his face a mess. “Q, I, I wanted to tell you, before we have to–”

Someone knocks at the door, and they leap apart. As she enters, if Kady notices their flushed lips and wrinkles clothes, she doesn’t react to it. “Tick says you’re on in three pages.”

“Thanks,” Quentin breathes. She waves a hand at them as she leaves. He looks back at Eliot, but the moment’s gone. He’s clamped his mouth shut again.

As they head to their places, Quentin eyes the theater's back door one last time.

Which would be the lesser-of-two-miseries? Running for their lives now, fashioning whatever happiness they can together, before they’re caught and condemned? Or staying here, seeing this through to the end, and having a set amount of time together, before they part on their own terms?

He doesn’t really get to decide. Eliot’s getting back into character, The Monster’s eyes glassy and intent. Abigail dabs dark, red paint on both their faces with a brush, like they’ve been through a few massacres already. To lighten the mood, she even shakes Eliot’s hand, covering it in paint in the process. He smiles at her, tightlipped but not disdainful. When she departs, he takes Quentin’s hand, threading their fingers together, painting him too. To anyone in the audience, as he tugs him onstage, it might appear as a gesture of The Monster’s macabre delight in violence. Or its disregard for Brian’s discomfort. But Quentin’s holding Eliot’s hand. And he’s doing it in front of thousands of people. Openly feeling the groves on his palm, the curve of those lithe fingers, that have touched him everywhere. And he doesn’t let him go, as one ensemble member after another “dies” in front of him.

Quentin only releases him because he has to get out a wineskin of poison. In an aside to the audience, he reveals it may kill The Monster if it touches him. He sees two women on the balcony clutch each other’s hands in fear. Groundlings in the back of the yard crane their necks to see. Even the hawkers have their eyes trained on him. Do they all fear for his safety? Do they wonder if Nigel’s still alive, and Brian may unknowingly kill him?

Eliot walks away, monologuing about all the humans and gods in Fillory that deserve his wrath. Until he stumbles. The Monster’s never stumbled, Brian knows, but he has to keep stealthily going forward anyway. This is his one chance.

“Brian?”

The Monster still hasn’t turned his back. There’s still a chance.

His brain swims, turning to lead. Every beautiful moment from Act Two is bearing down on him, crushing him. His lips burn with Eliot’s kiss, his skin alight with Eliot’s touch, torn away from him just a short time ago.

Can he do it? Can he disregard every second of what they’ve been through together, just so the rest of the world can go on spinning?

Eliot turns, seeing him. “Brian!”

Quentin freezes, the wineskin open and ready to unleash its poison.

“’Tis I! It _is_ Nigel that speaks to thee.”

“Play no games with me, Monster,” he cries.

Eliot falters, a little hurt. He tries again, going forward, his hands outstretched in supplication. “Was not the fifty years I spent with thee enough to prove the concept of our bond?”

_Yes! Yes! Why can’t we have fifty years, Eliot? Why the fuck does the world think it has the right tell us we can’t?!_

“What?” he chokes out. The wineskin jitters in his shaking grip.

Eliot’s just a foot away. He lightly shoves Q on the shoulder, taking care to do so with his other, unstained hand. The touch unmoors Quentin almost entirely. His mind drifts through the air, surrounded by Eliot’s voice. “Dost thou kick thy tiles at me, whoreson?” And then a smile, one that makes Quentin’s stomach somersault twice over, breaks out across Eliot’s face. Hopeful. Enchanting. Mesmerizing. “I _live_. _Within_ the confines of this Monster.”

“Nigel,” Quentin breathes.

 _Eliot_.

As Eliot takes a step back, and The Monster resumes control, Quentin falls to his knees. He’s not sure how much more of this he can live through.

When The Monster asks why he’s kneeling like that, and why there’s a poisoned wineskin in his hands, Brian manages to bullshit his way out of it. He’s dragged offstage after he pens a quick letter to Janet, pilfered from Fogg’s “corpse,” about Nigel’s circumstances.

Everything after that passes in a blur of shape and color. Margo has claimed dominion over the quick-change room. The workshop is a sea of red cloth for the desert spirits. He and Eliot can’t secret themselves away anywhere, so they stand off to the side, shoulder to shoulder. Quentin swears that fucking hourglass isn’t timing the play anymore, as Tick flips it over into the second hour. It’s keeping track of how much time he and Eliot have left. Eliot catches him staring at it more than once. He shakes his head at him the first time. He joins their painted hands again the second time. And squeezes them together every time after that.

Quentin lays his head on Eliot’s shoulder. He’s all done with panic and remorse and self-loathing now. He just wants comfort, and to be Eliot’s comfort too. The roaring of the audience, every clap and cheer for Margo’s triumph, it all falls on his deaf ears. There’s no victory for anyone, when this is over. How is he going to make it through tomorrow, when it feels like everything keeping him alive is lodged inside the man beside him.

Something he’s always thought, but never written into the script, scrapes on the edge of his brain as Act Five begins. Wouldn’t it make sense that the loss of magic was actually Brian’s fault, all along? That he’d caused it somehow, and that’s why he tries so hard to get it back?

“To atone” is a strong, actionable objective. One any moral character would want to see through, to the very end. A devoted king, responsible for the safety and happiness of his people most of all. So of course Brian lets himself go through all this, in penance for robbing Fillory of its very soul. Of course he thinks Fillory can go on without him, that the High King and Queen will watch over it when he’s gone. Self-sacrifice makes perfect sense, in that case.

So will he atone for the mess he’s made - of Eliot’s life, of Josh’s life, of Kady’s, Alice’s, Seb’s, Margo’s - by never seeing Eliot again, after today?

Possibly. He can try.

Margo cleaves her axe into Eliot’s side with a scream. He crumples to the floor with a graceful stage-fall. Together, desperately, they drag him over to one of the huge pillars, on the very spot Brian leans against in Act One.

They'd stuffed Rafe’s golden sheet into Eliot’s doublet earlier. Now Quentin bends over his prone body, wraps a shorter fishline around his finger, like a ring, and draws the golden sheet up and out of Eliot’s chest. They show its extraction to the audience, letting it float in midair for a moment, before Quentin stuffs it into a bottle, sealing it with a cork and a wave of magic. The trapdoor slides open, a little mouth of Hell, gaping wide Downstage Center.

It’s alright, Eliot. It’s alright, Margo. He’s almost done. They’ll be free of him soon. All he has to do is fall. He looks down at the clear glass bottle in his hands, to the golden mass inside. He recites:

_Dost thou, Monster, know the most horrid part  
_ _Of getting what thou wants most? When it doth  
_ _Not satisfy. If such greedy, o’ergrown  
_ _Hopes, once matured, cannot breed happiness,  
_ _Then what, pray, would?_

He raises his eyes. Looks at every man, woman, child, in every corner of the theater. The children fidget a little, their attention span all but gone. It’s alright, little ones. He’ll be done soon.

_Magic’s meaning, like mine,  
_ _Is but happenstance, for one little life’s  
_ _Sacrifice, one quintessence of dust, frees  
_ _Fillory from mighty shackles imposed  
_ _By divinities stronger than Nature.  
_ _So it must go, for I must nothing be;_

The pillows and mattresses are all waiting for him. His heart will rush, he remembers, as he steps over the edge. As safe as he’ll be, his heart still reacts otherwise. Still afraid, even after all that practice.

With tears trickling down his cheeks, he thinks of Eliot’s beating heart, thundering through his clothes today, and in his rooms, and beneath the silken sheets, and atop Quentin’s quivering body as he made him come, and behind him as he scribbled at his desk, as he says to the pit:

_Therefore I go, for I resign to thee.  
_ _Now mark me, how I will undo myself.  
_ _I give this heavy weight from off my head,  
_ _And this unwieldy desire from my hand,  
_ _The pride of kingly sway from out my heart;  
_ _With mine own tears I wash away my age,  
_ _With mine own hands I give away my crown,  
_ _With mine own tongue deny my sacred state,  
_ _With mine own breath release all duty’s rites:  
_ _All pomp and majesty I do forswear,  
_ _My memories, kinfolk, past, I forego;  
_ _My acts, mistakes, and hubris I will own;_

And just for a moment, he steps back. The audience seems to breathe, all at once, after having held it for so long. He does a steady, slow cross upstage, and he’s kneeling down before Margo, who’s hands are covering Eliot’s “axe wound,” a pile of red cloth that she lets slip from her fingers every once in a while. To Nigel, though he might not be able to hear him, and to Janet, he weeps,

_God pardon all oaths that are broke by me!  
_ _God keep all vows unbroke that swear to thee!  
_ _Make me, that nothing have, with nothing grieved,  
_ _And thou with all pleased, that hast all achieved!  
_ _Long mayest thou live in Brian’s seat to sit,  
_ _And soon lie Brian in an earthly pit!_  
_God save King Nigel, unking’d Brian says,  
_ _And send him many years of sunshine days!_

He takes a deep breath, and stands, looking down at Eliot one last time. “ _What more remains?_ ” he asks softly.

Just one last thing. Before the end.

With a light jog, he makes for the trapdoor, and barely jumps off the floorboards. Keeping his legs tight, he plummets down in a pencil dive, and crashes into the nest waiting below.

Silence reigns above his head. Any second now, Harriet and Zelda will come back out, to conclude this mess. Quentin wipes his eyes again and again as he waits, but they’re an unyielding torrent. His chest quivers, from the force of his soundless gasps for air that never seem to be enough.

A deafening round of gasps and soft cries explode above him. A little late, he thinks miserably, but it’s better than nothing. Clapping might be too much to ask for, now. Whatever. He’ll take whatever reactions they have for him.

The beams of sunlight, slanting through the boards, flicker above his head. The wood creaks and complains, as someone walks across the stage. A looming shadow casts itself through the trapdoor. Quentin blinks through his tears, squinting as he’s blinded by the darkness. Someone is climbing down the ladder. A tall, lanky shape, with flared sunflower breeches and cardinal sleeves. Quentin’s mouth gapes open, as Eliot holds out a crimson hand to him. The other, he uses to grip the edge of the stage, so the audience can see he’s not entirely gone yet. 

When Quentin still doesn’t move, Eliot hisses, “Come on. Margo’s stalling for us.”

“What are you doing?!”

“Changing the ending.”

“What?!”

Eliot shifts impatiently on the ladder. “If we don’t get a happy one, then they at least deserve to. Come on!”

Who did he mean? The audience? Brian and Nigel?

“Q. Sweetheart. _Please_.”

He’s powerless against that. He couldn’t deny him even if he wanted to. He crawls across the pillows, taking Eliot’s hand. They ascend the ladder, and emerge back out into the theater. There’s nothing but stunned faces for miles. But Eliot doesn’t let him look at them for too long. He tugs Quentin into a fierce embrace. Like he’s always done, like he always will, he brings his arms up, and hugs hum back, clutching the grove of Eliot’s shoulder blades.

Margo must’ve signaled Harriet and Zelda. He sees the bleary, watery shape of one of them through his still-flowing tears. Zelda delivers the last lines of the play, finishing with a resounding, conclusive couplet. Harriet lowers her hands, her signs done. And they wait.

Quentin squeezes Eliot tighter, bracing for impact.

A clap.

Two.

Claps like rainfall on a roof.

Claps like Teddy banging the orchard fences with sticks, as he made his music.

Claps like every cannon in a fleet firing at once.

Claps like there’s never been for a play before. Whistles and shouts and standing ovations and… oh, right, they should probably bow, now. His own hands are like iron, though, still griping Eliot’s clothes.

He feels the rest of the cast, every single person who went on this journey with him, who he couldn’t’ve done this without, come on stage to bow.

Margo claps them both on the shoulders, and pries them apart.

“Nice job, assholes,” she murmurs, an honest-to-God tear trail running down her cheek. Eliot grins, through his own tears, and wipes hers off her face. She bats his hand away in disgust, smirks, and then goes to take her bow.

The last to go, he and Eliot face the crowd with their hands linked. They bend at the waist to the right, to the left, to the center, and they blow kisses to the sky. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Alice wave from the third-tier gallery, and he bows his head to her. The applause doesn’t cease for a moment. _Brian and Nigel_ is a hit. It just might go down in history after all, just like Josh said.

Except for one thing. It appears that Penny’s standing at the public entrance. He’s in a pair of rich, burgundy trousers and a vibrant, moss-green jacket, whose sleeves wrinkle as he crosses his arms. Royal guards, their steel helmets and tall spears gleaming wickedly, accompany him on both sides. One guard puts a bugle to his lips, and the blaring sound is just loud enough to make everyone in The Blackspire pay attention.

The guards in their clanking armor march forward, clearing a path. Penny’s medals around his neck clink and clang as he proceeds down the path they make for him. His boots, freshly polished, thunk as he takes the stairs to stand on the stand.

“I’m here to arrest you in the name of Her Majesty,” Penny shouts.

The throng of people in the house erupt into shouts of their own. Skye buries her head in Sunderland’s chest, while Lipson holds both her boys tight. Ess and Micah and Pete raise their fists, but Idri and Marina both bid them to lower their arms with a gesture.

Quentin thought he was done being afraid. He was very wrong. He steps in front of Eliot, shielding him with his body.

Never one to waste an entrance, Kady Orloff throws the Center Stage curtains wide open as she yells, “Arrest _who_ , Mr. Adiyodi?”

The boot of Penny’s heel twists, just an inch. His jaw ticks, and he can’t meet Kady’s eyes. “Admiral’s Men, Chamberlain’s Men. Anyone who stands in contempt of the closure notice I set down three days ago.”

Kady pushes her way through Marina and Idri, and comes to stand before Quentin and Eliot. Margo puts her hands on their shoulders, and they take a few steps back to give Kady her space, not daring to say anything.

“We’re not standing in contempt,” Kady says. She punctuates every word, making sure everyone can hear her. “You closed The Whitespire. I didn’t open The Whitespire.”

“You’ve got the same cast,” Penny jabs a finger over her head. “The indecency’s as blatant as ever. Your performances are only allowed at the pleasure of the queen, and the laws of her country. And neither of those entities allow what you’ve just done. So in the name of England and Her Majesty Queen Julia–”

“Mr. Adiyodi!” someone calls out, from the exact center of the right-side ground-tier. A cloaked woman steps forward, two others at her side. The woman’s delicate hands pinch the edges of her hood, and throw it off her head. Queen Julia stands before them, as commanding as a typhoon, in her bold, pure purple gown. Her ladies-in-waiting catch her cloak as it falls from her shoulders. A ruff made of golden straw and pearl drops frames her hair, like a meteor shower at sunset.

What the fuuuuuuuuuck.

The entire theater drops to their knees if they can, or bends in half if they can’t. Anyone wearing a cap or a hat doffs it. Hundreds scatter like pigeons in the park, as she descends down to the ground floor, following in Penny’s footsteps right up until he moves so she can take his place on stage.

“Have a care with my name. You’ll wear it out, otherwise,” she says dryly, and Penny bends even further in acknowledgement.

Quentin’s hand in Eliot’s is clammy with sweat. There’s no escape, now. One word from Julia, and the entire theater will lay hands on them before the order finishes leaving her mouth.

Julia takes another step forward. Her steely gaze sweeps over all the actors. “Remind me, Mr. Adiyodi, why you think this play is indecent?”

Carefully, without anything to suggest what he’s thinking, Penny says, “Two men… _bonding_ together on stage, ma’m. These two actors here.”

Julia stares at Kady, who’s reluctantly stands to the side. Eliot releases his hand, and they both sweep into lower bows.

“Yes, that would be Mr. Coldwater, and this other one, Mr…?”

“Benedick Johnson the Eunuch, Your Majesty,” Eliot answers, his voice almost sticking in his throat as he lies to _the queen of fucking England_ , who _definitely_ knows who he is, because he fucking argued with her about plays barely a fucking week ago. What the fuck is Eliot doing?!

Julia’s eyes twitch. “The Queen of England does not attend lewd performances. So, something’s out of joint. Come here, Mr. Johnson, let me look at you.”

Eliot steps forward. And instead of sweeping into the traditional bow, where a man “breaks a leg,” Eliot dips into a fucking curtsy. Every inch of Quentin’s skin soaked in sweat.

Julia makes him stay like that, for a long moment. “Your performance of what society labels as masculine is remarkable,” Julia says. “It’s a mistake anyone could make, Mr. Adiyodi.” 

Quentin bites his cheek as every tissue in his brain screams. Penny bows lower, like he’s hoping for her forgiveness. 

“But I know something of what he’s trying to perform. Being born into a life that is not yours takes work. Skill. Practice. Yes, I know what that kind of effort looks like very well.” She keeps Eliot pinned under her gaze for a moment longer. “That’s enough from you, Mr. Johnson.”

Eliot bobs his head, stepping to the side.

“Now if only Lady Wessex was here.”

There’s a shifting, roiling commotion on the third-tier balcony. Alice rushes forward to the edge of the banister, and points directly across the house. “Your Majesty? She’s right there.”

Sure enough, because Quentin’s day couldn’t possibly get any crazier, the reluctant shape of Fen emerges from behind that barber Quentin had visited just this morning. Everyone around her gives her a wide berth, thanks to her skirts. Fen’s wedding dress is a complete mess. The pins in her hair are barely keeping things in order, and she’s lost one of her dangling gold earrings. Her eyes are wide and skittish, as she tries to draw her stained satin silk cloak around herself while bowing at the same time. She must’ve followed Eliot to the theater. If she’s been watching them almost this whole time, then–

“There was a wager at Greenwich,” Julia reminds her, projecting her voice and brokering no argument. “About whether a play can show the ‘beauty of all life.’ I think that wager’s been lost today, don’t you?”

Quentin swears that Fen’s head jerks down at Eliot for a second. But then again, it might just be a nod.

“Mr. Coldwater.”

So... about that kraken he imagined back at Greenwich? Any chance it was at the bottom of the Thames after all? Was it hungry? Would it mind terribly if he jumped into its mouth right now?

Dutifully, he breaks a leg before Her Majesty.

“Next time you come to court, come as yourself. We should speak about your work some more.”

He dares to glance up, and she winks at him with her upstage eye. That… that means... what he thinks it does, right? At some point, she wants to _speak_ with him, as a playwright. Not as a company man of the Admiral’s Men, or the Chamberlain’s. As an artist, whose merit is being recognized by the highest authority in the land. That kind of attention’s going to change his life.

Satisfied that she’s settled all the chaos she can, Julia turns. She descends from the stage, followed out by her attendants, the guards, and finally Penny. As The Master of Revels goes by, he shoots Kady a quick glance that Quentin can’t make out. And then he’s glaring at Q, with a look which definitely means something along the lines of “you better be grateful for this, you lucky motherfucker.”

Like flies drawn to honey, the crowd streams outside after Queen Julia, wanting every second in the queen’s presence they can get. Even the cast isn’t immune. Knowing they can get to her faster the back way, most of them race behind the Center Stage arch. Even Margo goes along with them, once she makes sure Fen’s ducked outside. A second later, she whips her head back in and says “Benedick, you’re gonna wanna see this.”

Eliot steps forward, then reconsiders. He glances down at Quentin, who’s slumped down to sit on the edge of the stage. He’s closed his eyes, breathing hard.

“Q?”

Margo stomps her foot. “He’ll be there when you get back. You need to come here. Now. I think it’s your wife.”

Fucking hell.

“I’ll be here, El,” Quentin reassures faintly. He can’t stop his inner thoughts from demanding Eliot never leave his side for the rest of eternity. He can, however, accept that there’s literally nothing he can do right now to keep Eliot here. Instead, he can wrestle with himself like Jacob and the angel. That’s bound to make time go by. It always has.

Behind him, he hears the stage-keeper and book-keeper making their rounds, sending stagehands out to pick up all the props and furniture. Another stagehand gets sent into the house, to sweep up the peels and shells, so they don’t rot there in the sun for the rest of the afternoon. Plum and her band wander down, collecting their earnings for the day. She bids Quentin goodbye, saying she’ll see him tomorrow as they head out the door.

Crows land on the roof overhead, cawing to one another in their own words. There’s a breeze, drifting down through the sky, and it plays with the wisps of his hair. He didn’t realize how many strands had escaped his bun.

Hours ago, he’d been thinking about what theatre meant to him. Its inherent power, and the wisdom of experiencing it. How close it brought him to other people.

True to form, he reflects on how there will never be another day like this. How these last few hours might have be the best version of his work, for all time. How it’s already vanished and gone, and he’ll never get it back. But all the memories - this whole life he’s lived in one day - are still alive inside him. They’ll shape how he looks at the world tonight, and tomorrow, and even on his deathbed.

About fifteen minutes later, a pair of hesitant footsteps sound behind him. There’s the creak of hinges, as the trapdoor gets closed back up. He can feel the solid presence of Eliot, hear the air drifting out of his nose, right up until the moment he sits beside Quentin, dangling his legs over the edge. If he closed his eyes even tighter, in the darkness of his mind, they might as well be back up on that marble wall again.

Look at all that’s changed, since then, he wants to say. Look at all that's changed. And all that hasn’t.

Eliot’s fingers take his wrist, and gently open his hand. He settles a coin purse in his palm. Quentin opens his eyes in surprise at how heavy it is. The coins shift and clink every time his fingers flex.

“Fifty pounds,” Eliot announces.

Quentin might as well be holding a keg of gunpowder in his hands. “You… you didn’t have this on you the whole time,” he says, stunned.

Eliot chuckles. “You’d’ve felt it if I did. No, Fen had it.”

“But, I thought, isn’t she bankrupt? That’s the whole reason why she… that you…”

Eliot lightly taps the boards of the stage below with his heels. “My father got back last night. So the contract could get signed, and he and Mother could see me off. The second the ink was dry, Fen asked for a little ‘advance’ on his investment. Don’t think she planned on giving it away so soon after, though.”

“Why’d she even give it to you?”

“According to Margo, Fen practically chased the queen down after she got outside just now. Her Majesty, erm, _delicately_ suggested she give it to me. She said I’d get it to the right place.”

Nodding, Quentin sets the purse to the side. He feels cheap, like he’s sold someone out, and he’s just been handed the reward for his treachery.

Eliot nudges his shoulder lightly. “Hey, think about it. With that kind of money? And that invitation from the queen? You’re not a hired player anymore. You can write anything you want now. You can do whatever you want.”

Quentin’s lips quirk humorlessly. “I was gonna use it to buy a share in the Chamberlain’s Men.”

“That’s good–”

“I’m not going to.”

Eliot stops kicking the stage. He forces some kind of cheerful reprimand into his words. “Well, you say that, but the queen also said to tell you she wants something a little more cheerful from you next time. For the Epiphany, after Christmas.”

“I don’t think I’m gonna write anymore.”

Just like he did on that moonlit night, Eliot turns to face him, bringing his leg up, and clutching his calf to keep his hands under control. “What? That’s a little overdramatic, don’t you think?” Even when Quentin levels him the most irascible glare in the history of mankind, Eliot doesn’t back down. When he sees that Quentin means it, his voice hardens as he pries the lid off his own anger. “Don’t you do that to me. Don’t you fucking dare,” he growls.

Quentin is _this_ close to sniping at him. Eliot’s not even going to _be here_. How the hell would he know whether he wrote anything after this. Why the hell does it matter anyway? Why does _any_ of it fucking matter?

Shouldn’t Fen be storming back in here, and shackling Eliot’s wrist to hers, so he doesn’t get away from her again? That’s how things really are, right? With him and Eliot? Chained to the people who buy them? The people who allow others to buy just a little bit of the power they have, for the chance at a better life?

Eliot cups his cheek, jolting him out of his spiral.

Maybe Eliot sees the regret on his face. His eyes soften, and he rubs his cheekbone with his thumb. He looks so vulnerable. Scared. Molten self-loathing pools in Quentin’s gut, and he wishes he could purge his recent thoughts, like a lancet to an abscess.

“You don’t have to do it right away,” Eliot says. He takes his hand. The red paint’s dry by now. Little flecks of it still rub off in their joined grip. “But not ‘never again,’ okay? For Teddy? For me, who pleads for love?”

The famiiar words claw their way through his ears, shredding through his defenses. “You bastard.” He throws himself at Eliot. One of those damn clasps bites into his upper lip, but the pain’s nothing. “How many fucking goodbyes do we to have to say? When is it enough?”

Eliot buries his nose in his hair. “It wouldn’t be enough fifty years from now, Q. I never, ever want to say it again,” he says.

“Then don’t,” Quentin says. It almost comes out as a wail. Because he should know better by now.

“What should we do instead?” Eliot says, his heart breaking. “A quote, like we always do?”

“Fuck that. I’m sick of pretty words and layers of meaning and goddamn meters. Kiss me. Fucking _kiss me._ ”

Eliot does. He kisses Quentin the way he’s wanted to ever since that damn peacock mask got in his way.

He kisses him the way he'd always dreamed he’d kiss the love of his life, back when he was a naïve noble in the audience, quoting Rupert’s lines under his breath. He kisses him like he would before a priest and all manner of witnesses. Like he had during that week of bliss, before that stolen season ended. Like he did today, in the workshop. Like he did on their last night in bed together.

Quentin kisses Eliot like it’s the only reason he was put on this earth in the first place. He memorizes the divot of his cupid’s bow, the curve of his hawk-like nose pressing into his cheek, the way his black curls uncoil, when he grips them to press Eliot closer. He opens his mouth to him, like it’s the highest honor he could ever achieve. Like nothing but the feeling of his dimples growing wider, as he smiles in relief, would make him happier. Like he’s going to see them joined together in the mirror again, if he opens his eyes. Like this is the last time he will ever feel whole.

With the smallest, catastrophic shift of his head, Eliot pulls away. He strokes Quentin’s hair out of his eyes, using a finger to trace every feature of his face. Dropping his hand, looking him right in his perfect, expressive, shattered eyes, he says, “Goodbye, Q.”

Quentin doesn’t say it back. He just holds Eliot’s hand as he stands, and doesn’t let go until the distance gets to be too great, and his hand is forced to crash back down onto his lap. He knows the sound of Eliot’s footsteps leaving will haunt him in his dreams. Will haunt him for the rest of his life. With a horrible, anticlimactic finality, he watches Eliot disappear behind the curtains.

He doesn’t know how long he sits there. Margo doesn’t come looking for him. The sun drifts across the sky and starts to sink. The stagehand finally finishes sweeping the third-tier balcony, and leaves with his day’s pay stuffed in his pocket.

“Hey,” Kady says from upstage, some unknowable time later. 

Quentin grabs his little fortune, and holds it up to her.

“Where the hell did you get this?” she says.

“Won a bet,” he grunts dully as he stands, stretching his aching back. “I’m buying a share, if you’ll have me.”

Kady purses her lips. After a second, she acquiesces a nod. “Yeah, guess you’ve earned it.” She does him the courtesy of not hefting the coins, to check their weight.

“Are we going up tomorrow?” he asks, his voice barely loud enough. 

She shakes her head, shooting him a knowing look. “I think we’ll let this one close early.”

“Marina might object.”

“Marina’s _bathing_ in money as we speak; I think she’s gonna be fine. We’re also down a lead. And something tells me we might be down two, soon enough. The Chamberlain’s Men can recast in a few months.”

Quentin shrugs, not pushing the point. The last wisp of peeled oranges fades from the air. He thinks of groves of fruit trees. Of Teddy dodging between their rows, on a quest for Ember’s Tomb. “Seriously, will you actually need me anytime soon?”

She waits for him to explain.

“I need to go to Stratford-on-Avon. Family business.”

Instead of agreeing, she worms a finger into the purse’s opening, and pulls out ten pounds. His mouth opens to object, but she scolds him, “You think I’m letting my best playwright go without some money for a horse? Or a room for the night? I lost Sebastian King to a knife fight, I’m not letting you starve out on the road.”

Technically she lost Seb to his one true love, but he’s not about to say so. He just promises to let her know when he’s back, and asks her to tell Margo where he’s gone, if she sees her. He doesn’t want to delay anymore. There’s nothing in his rooms he needs to stop by and grab before he sets out, anyway. So he simply bids her farewell, tells her to thank Alice for him one last time, and trudges through the public entrance. His purse is heavy with his barely earned earnings.

He heads west, at a steady pace, but discerning eyes ought to draw their focus to a ship to the east. It’s anchored at the mouth of the Thames. This vessel is named _Miranda_. She’s a forty-gunner, one who manages 12 knots under full sail, and she’s nearly lost the tide, due to one particular passenger’s delay.

Fen hasn’t spoken to Eliot since the ceremony in the church. She hasn’t said a peep during their long carriage ride to the wharf. She’s merely staring out the gilded windows, pulling and picking at the embroidered cushions beneath her dress like fibers caught in a scab. Eliot would be delighted if it stayed this way for all eternity.

Todd, too, has been silent, for far more selfless reasons. He shoots Eliot the occasional worried glance, like Eliot might fling himself from the carriage if Todd doesn’t keep an eye out. But he doesn’t have to worry about that. Eliot’s done with dramatics. If anyone forces Eliot to speak for the next… well, he doesn’t know for how long. Honestly, just taking a vow of silence might be a more reliable drastic measure. Otherwise, the next time he opens his mouth, he’ll scream until someone cuts his throat to shut him up.

Another consideration (ne _restraint_ ), which Todd’s been gracious enough to offer, is a seemingly bottomless wineskin. Eliot’s pleasantly tipsy and grounded by the time he stumbles up the gangplank of the _Miranda_.

A crewman shows him to his tightly packed quarters below deck. Fen’s gone farther below, wrecked dress and all, to triple check that their cargo is free of rats, weighed and measured, and secure in the hold. She takes Todd with her, for any last-minute lifting. She leaves Eliot in peace, to down the contents of that wineskin like it’s ambrosia in Olympus: just as heavenly, and just as deadly.

He considers getting out of his clothes. The air down here is smothering from lack of airflow. He even goes so far as to rip his ruff off his neck, and his cloak from his shoulders, tossing them both into the corner. But the rest might as well be adhered to him with tar. Because the last trace of Quentin he’ll ever have is all over it. He’s not about to amputate himself from that, not for any reason.

Through the gaps in the wood of the door, he hears some sailor complaining why they’re _still_ not underway, even though those damn nobles finally arrived.

Oh dear. If Eliot can still make out words like this, he’s still far too sober.

He goes to take another mouthful, when someone opens his door, without so much as a knock. Well, looks like he’s about to let out that scream after all.

But this stranger is now shrugging a huge coat off, revealing their sumptuous curves, a font of long, braided, sun-gilded brown hair, and a glare that could raise or level Rome in a day, depending on who she directed it on.

And right now, Margo’s eyes are on the warpath for Eliot, and Eliot alone.

“Alright, twat-waffle. It's time we talked about how I'm getting you out of this shit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An Aside to the Audience:
> 
> So [fishydwarrows](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fishydwarrows/pseuds/fishydwarrows) surprised me out of the blue and made a jaw-dropping, stunning pair of illustrations for the moment Q and El see each other during the play. Please check the pieces out [here](https://fishfingersandscarves.tumblr.com/post/631527749024088064/and-so-of-you-beauteous-and-lovely-youth-when) and give them all the love and kudos and support you can. 
> 
> How'd you like that totally-ripped-off Prologue from R+J? And that minor Midsummer ref? And how 'bout those lines from Much Ado? And that last monologue of Q's in 4x12 casually sliding into the DMs of a monologue from _Richard II_? Smooth, right? Shakespeare's totally not rolling over in his grave right now, right? Right? RIGHT?!
> 
> There are also a few cardinal theatre rules that the company definitely breaks during the performance, haha. Josh shouldn't be whistling, they really shouldn't have any peacock feathers on stage, and blue's not always a good color to dress your lead in. More on that [here](https://www.playbill.com/article/8-rules-every-theatre-person-must-follow-do-you-know-all-of-them-com-373336). You can decide for yourselves whether all that had a "Producers" effect on what happened during the show.
> 
> And yeah, fun fact, but _Shakespeare In Love_ isn't exactly a comedy? Like, they don't get a happy ending so much as a bittersweet one, emphasis on the "bitter." And you know what? That's NOT what we're about here, folks! Josh said it in the Prologue: mistaken identities, some fights, a bit with a dog, a pirate king, and love wins in the end. If you've been keeping track, then you know we've only got a few left to check off that list. Strap yourselves in, darlings. The last and longest chapter is just ahead!


	13. Act Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> O! how much more doth beauty beauteous seem  
> By that sweet ornament that truth doth give.  
> The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem  
> For that sweet odor, which doth in it live.  
> The canker-blooms have full as deep a dye  
> As the perfumed tincture of the roses,  
> Hang on such thorns, and play as wantonly  
> When summer's breath their masked buds discloses;  
> But, for their virtue only is their show,  
> They live unwooed, and unrespected fade;  
> Die to themselves. Sweet roses do not so;  
> Of their sweet deaths are sweet odors made.  
> And so of you, beauteous and lovely youth,  
> When that shall vade, my verse distills your truth.
> 
> \--Sonnet 54

* * *

Having never set foot on a ship before, Eliot finds it impossible to stand up for very long. As he gets up from the low bed, both the wine and the constant, covert shifting beneath his feet are doing their best to convince him gravity is a myth.

Margo doesn’t move to catch him as he careens into a nearby wall.

“Are you really here?” he groans.

She just blinks and crosses her arms, folding her coat over her elbow to keep it off the floor. She’s wearing the plainest, drabbest clothes he’s ever seen her in. Baggy, beige breeches. A lye-scrubbed tunic. Some kind of molasses colored vest, twice her size. Her boots and leather hat are caked with stains and sporadic splatters of gull shit. The disguise is almost profane, like he should turn his eyes away. At least until she’s resumed wearing her usual finery.

He puts a hand out to steady himself, and tries to ask, “How did you–” but then he pitches to the other wall, the one with a blindingly shiny mirror and a low-hanging lantern on a hook. It cheerfully bashes him over the head. “Oooow.”

“Hey, Margo,” Margo intones innocently, “did you just say you can get me out of this? Why, yes, Eliot! So glad you’re listening to me!”

Hearing her use his Christian name is obstinately jarring. She must’ve heard it somewhere. From someone. “What the fuck are you doing here?” he says, rubbing his eyebrow as he squints at her. Whoever decided to hang that lantern there ought to be shot. Right next to the man who invented low ceilings on ships. Fucking idiots, both of them. His back’s already twinging from all this stooping.

“Oh?” she continues. “An ingenious plan? One you spent the last _two_ days putting together? Cuckolded Christ, how will I ever thank you? Let’s throw an orgy in your honor!”

“Margo–”

“ _Eliot_ ,” she says, her tone now ice cold, “I’ve knocked back enough spirits with you to make the French jealous. You’re better than this. Stop embarrassing me, and pick a wall and lean already.”

He’s tempted to stand in the middle of the room out of spite. He picks the one farthest away from her, as a happy medium.

“Apologies for offending your delicate sensibilities,” he drawls. Uncorking the wineskin, he takes another swig. “Although I’m afraid I don’t need any plan of yours. My own plan suits me just fine.”

That callous look in her eye flickers. “What plan?”

He beams and jiggles the wine at her.

“Alright, enough.” She stomps over and tears it from his hands, throwing it onto the bed. Thank God he’d remembered to put the stopper in. He lurches off the wall after it, but she pushes him back. “You’re not gonna be able to remember all the pieces if you get any worse. Come on. This is life or death here.”

Eliot gives her a pitying smirk. “My life was forfeit the second I left The Blackspire.”

“Your old one, maybe, but you’re getting a new one.”

“Yup!” He throws his hands wide. “As a colonial! With my wit and good looks, I’ll wind up governor before the year’s out. Our bottomless mines will fund the Empire for centuries! The Waugh children will be dukes and duchesses–”

“God, _stop_ ,” she spits. “This isn’t funny.”

He finally finds the steel missing in his voice. “No. What is, is you trying to give me hope, when my capacity for it has necrotized like a leper’s dick in winter. If you keep trying to get me going, honey, it’s gonna come off in your hands.”

Margo takes a step back. “It’s a lot better than that shitty horror story you just told.”

“Monsters don’t get hope, Margo. We don’t get a life, or friends, or love, or any miniscule speck of a good thing. Not for too long. One way or another, we get sent to hell, to suffer, as a lesson to all the cherubs God actually likes, so they don’t stray too far off the path.”

Like He’s listening, Eliot finds his sea legs start to steady. A reward for finally getting the message, apparently. He straightens, seeing his shadow grow longer thanks to that damn lantern.

Stomping footfalls outside the door get closer. Margo and Eliot both tense up, until the sound recedes again. When Eliot looks back, to resume staring Margo down, he’s disappointed to see she’s not peeved at him anymore. She just shakes her head in disappointment as she brings her braid around. Idly, she starts undoing the plait, one strand after the other.

“You know, you almost sounded like Q for a second there.”

“Don’t,” he warns.

“Oh, I’m not.” Her eyes flare up at him for a second, but then she focuses back on her work. She’s already halfway along the braid, her fingers sure and steady. “See, he went on a pretty good rant of his own a couple days ago. When he thought he’d never see you again? The bitch out-soliloquied me, for once. Shouting to the world that he was sorry, over and over. Sorry for finally letting someone in. Sorry for trying to show someone how much he loved them. That sort of thing.”

Eliot’s stomach plummets through the deck and the hold, into the water below. And it keeps sinking, down down down into the filthy muck of the riverbed. He barely remembers Thursday and Friday beyond a few flashes. Most of them consist of watching Todd take his possessions away, one by one. Off the shelves, out of the wardrobes, and beneath his bed. Wrapping them up, and packing them in trunk after trunk after trunk. Shattering the illusion that he’d ever had any kind of home there.

* * *

[ ](https://yourtinseltinkerbell.tumblr.com/post/630338813847273472/see-he-went-on-a-pretty-good-rant-of-his-own)

* * *

Eliot hadn’t begrudged the man any of this. He even reminded Todd of a few places he forgot to check. He also doesn’t recall eating, or sleeping, or feeling anything except the bone-crushing grind of loneliness… until he saw that poster for the play under his foot, mere hours ago.

But to hear that Quentin – his perfect poet, his brave half, his very heart – spent any of that same time thinking _he_ was the one who needed to apologize…

Margo’s braid is all gone. Her illustrious, flowing curtain of hair reaches down to her elbow.

“And that’s what made me decide the two of you were worth this whole fucking headache,” she says.

“How?” says Eliot.

One single cascade of hair parts into three separate, equal strands. Taking two in one hand, one in the other, she begins to weave them back together. “He may have been spurting sorrys like a virgin cock in its first brothel, but he didn’t actually _mean_ it.” Her fingers dance down the plait, faster than he can keep up with. “You, though? You _are_ sorry, aren’t you? You actually feel like you owe these shits an apology.”

“Please, I think you’ve been–”

“Granted, that kind of thinking? It’s not something you’re born with,” she overrides with a flick of her wrist, tossing the finished braid behind her shoulders. “It’s something they taught you. And don’t you think the best way to unlearn it would be to leave, with me, right now?

“Fuck no,” he smirks, looking at the ground. A lock of his hair falls in front of his face. “After all the trouble I got us in? You want me to keep trying? To hold on to some little… _dalliance_ I had? No way. It’s not worth it.”

“It’s worth everything, you fucking maggot. You think that I – that _any_ of us – grew up showered with acceptance and respect and love? That I haven’t had to take all that for myself? Fight for every ‘miniscule speck’ of it?”

Where does Margo get this kind of energy? They both performed in the same play today, didn’t they? They've both got raw throats from projecting their voices before thousands. There's sweat crusting along their scalps, they've got reeking pit stains. Not to mention their aching feet, from standing and fighting and dancing. Can’t she just wallow in exhaustion and despair with him?

“ _You_ were free to,” he sighs, shouldering his way around her. He goes to the mirror, to look at the pathetic reflection, which returns his empty stare. “My life’s never been mine.”

She pokes him in the back. “You dipshit, it’s _only_ yours. No one gets to own you.”

He rounds on her. Maybe he still has some energy after all. Enough burn the lifelines people keep throwing at him to ashes. “And yet, funny thing, I had to marry someone today,” he says. “I had to stand in front of a hundred people, and make a shit ton of eternal promises I didn’t mean, to someone who’s probably gonna force me to sleep with her in a few hours.” He flashes his teeth in a shark-like grin. “That’s all I’ve been raised to do. That’s all I was made for.”

“No it’s _not_ , if you’d just–”

“Did you miss the part where, not half an hour ago, right in front of us, my, my fucking _wife_ basically asked the queen whether we were still married? And Julia the First, Gloriana Regina, God’s chosen vessel who shines His light on us, said ‘those who God has joined in marriage, not even I can separate’ before a whole crowd of people?”

“Are you really that fucking stupid?” she says, leveling him a pitying look of her own. “If she suddenly dissolved one arranged marriage, out of the blue, for no reason except the two people don’t love each other? That puts _every_ arranged marriage at risk. All those business deals and contracts might go up in smoke. No noble in England would feel safe making them anymore. Julia would start losing support right and left. Parliament would start voting the wrong way, just to spite her, and anything good she’s trying to do for us lowborn citizens gets tossed in the political shit house.”

He snorts, rubbing some grit out of his left eye. “You’re gonna waste my time on polit–”

“No, you’re _making_ me waste your time! We could’ve gotten started on your escape already!”

He opens his mouth to volley back, but she puts her fingers over his mouth. Tilting her head at him, her expression speaks volumes. She knows it, and he knows it: they won’t back down with each other. They’re too similar. This battle will only escalate, until someone gets hurt. Time to stop, before they even start.

They both take a deep breath, and let it out.

Maybe she is tired after all. Little changes appear on her face. A twitch in her cheek, a crinkle in the corner of her eye, a loosening muscle in her jaw. She seems to land on a decision. She drops her hand, then turns to commandeer his bed for herself, crossing one leg over the other, propping up an elbow on her knee.

Their ceasefire gives him a chance to pull himself together too. He massages his temples, pushing his hair behind his ears, with a gesture he tries not to think about too much. He knows where he got it from.

So.

Escape, huh?

He’s not allowed to consider it.

He’s not.

But imagining it won’t hurt anyone. Except himself.

Margo takes off her hat, resting it atop her coat. “The thing is, Eliot,” she says, “you can’t convince me to respect, or be afraid of, all the things you think are trapping you here. I’m never gonna let them have that kind of power over me. Never again. And nothing you say will change my mind. But unlike all those Powers-That-Be, I’m not gonna force you to come with me either. If I bring Q up again, or try to guilt-trip you about how he’s feeling, or talk about how he’s gonna spend the rest of his life without you, that’d just be playing by their rules.”

_You say that,_ he wants to sneer, _but Q would call all that a classic apophasis._

_And then I’d snag him close to kiss the top of his head and–_

The thought stabs him right between his ribs. Damn Margo. Reminding him how empty it is in there. Inside the cavern where his heart should be.

But then, she actually holds out his wineskin, as a peace offering. The liquid inside _glugs_ , as he snatches it back. The skin warps beneath his fingers as he squeezes.

“So I’d like to ask you a question instead,” she says. “And then, I’m gonna ask you another one after that. They kinda come with a long speech, fair warning – but at any point, you can tell me to get out, and I will. It’s up to you how long I get to stay.”

He frowns at her, his hand on the cork, but not prying it out just yet. “I thought we didn’t have a lot of time.”

She bats her eyelashes. “I never said that. I just said it was life or death. I’m in the _Admiral’s_ Men, Eliot. You think any English ship weighs anchor out of London without his permission?”

Huh. That’s kind of impressive.

“Fine. Let’s hear it,” he says. The cork’s out of the wineskin now. He graciously offers it out to her.

She takes it, downing a polite mouthful before handing it back. “Alright. Picture this, for a just second. Say we stripped away every single memory of whatever fucked up trauma you’ve got. Poof, all gone. Every bit of it. And then, before it comes back, say we stripped away every religion out there. Doesn’t matter who’s right and who’s wrong. Poof, all gone. And then we take away all the countries, all the governments, all the laws they made. And then we take away all the philosophers, and the writers, and the artists. Hell, let’s just take away all the people. We’re talking every single thing that’s told you how to live your life: gone. You still following me?”

“Was that your first question?”

“Did I say this monologue was a Socratic seminar?” she growls.

Eliot leans back, feeling the mirror pressing into his back. And definitely not thinking about another mirror he’d gotten very familiar with recently. “Proceed.”

“Now that all that’s gone, let’s say you have a house, and good health, and you’ll never have to worry about anything like hunger or thirst ever again–”

“Wait, is this just some metaphor for Heaven or the afterlife or whatever?”

Margo takes in enough air to make a deep-sea whale jealous.

“Hey, you should have known I was gonna be like this.”

“I… get that you’re a little drunk,” she exhales, her eyes glued to the ceiling. “And I’m… respecting your choice not to shut the fuck up. I am. But it’s making the image… of me lashing you to the figurehead… look really appealing right now.”

“Um, I think you’d enjoy faceplanting into those wooden tits a lot more than I would.”

“ _Exactly_. And it’d shut you up long enough for me to ask: if it was Act Two all over again, who’d you wanna spend that life with?”

Eliot clenches his fist hard enough for the muscles to start shaking. That's beyond a low blow, Margo. That's poison. “You know who.”

“Oh, you don’t have to say _me_. I’ve already got my own house in this scene. We’re neighbors.” Her tone may be glib, but the glare that follows is incendiary. This is the last time she’ll let him get away with it. “Who would you choose to be _happy_ with?”

Don’t.

Don’t say it.

It’s only going to hurt. He’s done the whole bravery thing. He’s dabbled in the fantasy. That should be enough. He can deny himself the rest. One taste, and he’s satisfied. For the first time, he’ll restrain his appetites. He can–

He bows his head. Speaks towards his heart. “Quentin.”

And just like she would in rehearsals, after she’d pummel him with character questions, and he’d manage to give her the right answer, she smiles. Genuinely. 

“Good,” she coaxes. “I know. I _know_ it’s not easy to admit. It feels like a weakness, but it’s not, I promise. And now you have a choice. You can stay here, or you can let me help you get back to him. Which one do you choose?”

He shakes his head. “It’s not that easy.”

“I’m not saying it’s gonna be easy.” She spreads her hands out. “The worst part is, we might actually pull it off, without a hitch. And you’ll be back in his arms before you know it.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

Although, he has to admit, now that she’s said that out loud, he knows she’s right.

How terrifying it would be, after _everything_ , for it all to go _well_.

“Then what do you mean, Eliot? We may be cut from the same cloth, but I’m not a prophet. I can’t wash you clean. I don’t know what’s holding you back, and even if you tell me, I might not be able to fix it. But I’d like to know anyway.”

Well. Let’s see.

How do you explain that voice that’s crept into every fissure in your brain. How do you explain the sheer power of it, how it tells you, in no uncertain terms, that you are not allowed to do what will make you happy. That there’s nothing you can do – no amount of good deeds or bad ones inscribed in the cosmic ledgers – that will earn you that right. To make your own destiny. To transform yourself into a person who has that kind of control, that kind of influence, that kind of power in the real world.

An actor can make all sorts of choices. How to say the lines. Where to move. When to weep. But he can’t stray from the script. Someone else gives him each sentence to say. Sure, maybe he doesn’t remember every single word, not every time, but the play must end how it was written to end. It’s not his to change. It never is. He can climb down into the Underworld and bring his love back up out of it, but that’s where it finishes. Just like Julia said, on her throne in Greenwich. Briefly, all is well, and then it ends.

Right?

His head empties for a moment. And in that emptiness, he hears… he hears…

_Then you stay with me_.

That’s what Quentin had said, even as Fen was seconds from smashing down the door.

_You stay with me._

No one told Quentin to say that. He just decided to. And no one told him to give up on the two of them either. No one told him to pretend to be “Quincy Rivers” just so Eliot didn’t have to go to Greenwich alone. Quentin Coldwater chose to do that, and to run after him after auditions, and to almost kiss Eliot on the marble wall, and defend him in front of bigots, and grind his perfect ass right against him in the morning sunlight, and to embrace him beneath that stage, and to share Teddy with him and show him what having a family meant, and–

He even chose to let Eliot go. Chose to ask for a goodbye kiss.

Why?

Because _Eliot_ chose to believe they wouldn’t get their happy ending. _He_ chose to tell Quentin they had to lose each other, in the end.

_Be brave again for me_.

Eliot chose to audition. Chose to dance. Chose to fuck into that gorgeous mouth, and invite him back home again and again, and drape his arms over his shoulders as he helped him write, and to give him his heart for safekeeping. He chose to attend the play today. To volunteer to be a part of it. He chose to tell him, out on his balcony, that his play didn’t have to be a tragedy, because the ending wasn’t written yet.

“What I mean is… um.” He looks up and swallows. “What about Todd?”

Margo jerks her head back, blinking about five hundred times. “Who?!”

“Todd. My butler. What happens to him in all this?”

Because Eliot is a coward, and he’s adrift in something that looks an awful lot like _making a_ _choice_ here.

And then making another one.

The biggest one.

Margo takes her arm off her knee, and clambers off the bed. Still baffled, but maybe sensing something in his question, she jams her coat and hat against her hip. “I mean, I guess we can – I don’t know! He can… he can come with me? And help??? Fuck, Eliot, come on, it’s not like this escape plan was built for two!”

“I can’t just let him sail across the ocean at Fen’s mercy,” he says, sticking his chin out at her.

She retaliates through clenched teeth, “Of all the fucking times, you think now’s the best one to be noble?”

“Might as well live up to the name one last time. _If_ I’m not gonna live a noble’s life anymore.”

Margo bites her tongue between her teeth. The smile she’s trying to hold back still nibbles at the edge of her mouth. “You’d be the first.”

“Gotta show the historians there’s still some truth to it, then,” he sniffs.

“Fine,” she shrugs. “Bring him in here. We’ll see what he wants to do.”

Eliot flashes his teeth, like it’s a challenge. “He’s with Fen right now, though?”

“Motherfucker!” She grabs both his arms and shakes him. “If you’re not blissfully, disgustingly, happy by the time all this is over, I will eat your heart, you got that?”

“Sorry. Happy or unhappy, I’ll kinda need it if I’m…” he takes a deep breath, “if I’m gonna win him back.”

Her fingers twitch, and her nails dig into the meat of his arm. Maybe she knows that’s as good as she’s gonna get for now. “I’ll settle for your liver, pickled as it is.”

She steps closer, loosening her grip. For a split second, he’s afraid she’s about to start carving him open right there. But then her hands are abruptly wrapping around his ribs. He returns the hug reflexively, stiff and thrown off his axis. Thankfully, she’s patient with him, knowing it won’t come easy. He does relax, after a long moment, and he fits her small, adamantine frame beneath his chin. Through the bouquet of seaside stenches, his lungs fill with sunlight, and the sharp tang of iron. Courtesy of the brief time she spent wearing her rightful crown.

“Long may you reign, Destroyer,” he whispers, since neither of them are much for thank yous.

“Might as well live up to the name, one last time,” she whispers back, so quietly that he almost misses it.

His legs might not be steady after all. Another subtle tilt beneath his feet jostles them both backward. They have to release each other, so they don’t topple over. It’s okay, though. Their sentimental moment’s passed anyway, just before it grew stale.

It turns out Margo’s plan is only _just_ shy of the overdramatic rescue he thought it’d be. He won’t have to “tragically fall overboard” or anything. But it’s not without its fair share of subterfuge, and risk.

The _Miranda_ isn’t a war ship, but she’s almost fast enough to rival one, despite all her cargo. It’ll only take her a day or two to traverse the Channel westward. If she reaches open ocean, then that’s it. No more chances to return to England; not unless Eliot comes up with his own plan to return – if he and the other passengers even manage to reach the New World in one piece, that is.

Bearing that in mind, Margo’s chartered a smaller ship, the _Prospera_ , to follow at a reasonable distance. It’s a "merchant" vessel, whose papers claim she’s bound for Calais, and then Le Havre if they’re forced to sail past that. Eliot just has to cross the distance between the two ships under cover of nightfall, either tonight or the night after. The _Prospera_ will peel off from her pursuit once he’s onboard. They’ll change course for Dover the following morning.

“How’m I supposed to do that?” he balks. “Lowering a lifeboat by myself? _Quietly_? That’s impossible.”

“Good thing the captain’s been heavily bribed into thinking you’re a spy for Her Majesty,” Margo hums. She examines her nails, flicking a speck of dirt off her vest. “He’s got a lifeboat hanging right outside his cabin. It’s on a bowsprit, just above the rudder. Tell him your ‘enemies’ found you, and he’ll lower you down.”

“Then Todd rows me over?”

She huffs, then shakes her head. “I didn’t tell the captain to help two people; just you. His bribe’s not heavy enough to keep him from getting suspicious. He’ll still want to have a job after all this’s done.” Her eyes dart back and forth, making calculations in her head. “If I take your butler with me now, you can say you fired him or whatever. He’ll be out of Fen’s way the whole time.”

Eliot nods, the knot in his chest loosening just a bit. He’s not a skilled rower, but he can manage. Doing it in pitch-black darkness is his next hurdle.

“We’ll have every lantern on my boat blazing,” Margo reassures him. “You won’t miss it.”

“And then what happens after we get to Dover?”

“Make your way back to London, sweep him off his feet, _grovel_ at his feet, fuck him ‘til he can’t _stand_ on his own two feet…”

Eliot’s first smile in hours creeps up on his face. Margo winks at him.

This can’t really be happening, can it?

Granted, it’s not happening yet. He still has to wait here. Has to let the ship cast off while he’s still on board. He’ll have to force himself to watch the shores of England get smaller and smaller. Let the wind carry the ship farther and farther from home.

But after that? He’ll be free of _everything_. Just like Margo said.

“Are those my only options?” he asks. He’s still fighting his grin, out of habit.

“No,” she says, her own smile widening. “You’ve got plenty to choose from.”

She leaves him not long after that, once they go over the crucial, minute details one more time. As soon as the door shuts behind her, his doubts naturally come roaring back. His heart won’t stop hammering. His breath catches in his throat.

Wouldn’t it be easier to just let Margo down? To stay down here, and let Fate sink its fangs back into his neck?

His truly warped moral compass even pipes up. What will Fen do, if he leaves her? Won’t she be at the mercy of the sea, or left destitute without the heir she promised his father?

Luckily, that’s where he decides to draw the line. Hell, he doesn’t just draw it, he scorches it into the earth with an Olympian lightning bolt. Fen is resourceful and unyielding. If she really wants to, she’ll find a way to get the Waughs an heir; maybe wrap some boorish sailor around her finger in the process. She knew the dangers of crossing an ocean, and she decided they were worth the risk. He’s just decided to not take that risk with her.

With that tucked away in the back of his head, he has enough fortitude to brave stepping back out on deck. About three-quarters of the sails have been unfurled. They flutter in the breeze as they start to tug the ship forward. A crowd of onlookers, nearly as large as The Blackspire’s audience earlier, has gathered for the spectacle of seeing the ship off. A few cheeky young ladies have already unsheathed their handkerchiefs, swinging them about like morning star flails.

Margo must have passed the word along – the _Miranda_ doesn’t need to be delayed anymore. Members of the crew rush about, trying to get them underway as fast as possible. Todd’s sweating buckets as he stands out of their way next to the mizzenmast. The sea of kerchiefs seems to be taunting him, like a towering wave that’s refusing to crest.

Eliot’s w – nope, no, he’s not going to call her that anymore. _Fen_ is also not too far off. She’s standing practically on top of the hatch, like a hen hovering over her eggs. She catches his eye for a moment, wordlessly indicating he ought to be at her side during departure.

He heads straight for Todd instead. As he strides across the planks, he shouts, “Great news! You’re fired!”

Todd thinks he’s kidding at first. Naturally. It’s not an unfamiliar joke. But the more he tries to brush Eliot off, the more he realizes he’s not joking. He quickly turns to pleading, not wanting to leave Eliot all alone.

In a burst of true fondness, Eliot spins a web of half-truths. He doesn’t want Todd to be forced away from home, like he’s going to be. How cruel does he think Eliot is? Sorry for the change in life plans and all that, but Eliot has thoroughly thought this through, and it’s for the best. See that woman there, Todd? At the end of the gangplank? She’ll sort him out. Might even find a new job for him.

Small mercies, but Margo manages to turn her head right then. Todd’s always had better eyes than Eliot; he must recognize her, even from this distance. Still, the stupid, loyal fellow persists. It’s not until Eliot starts heading back down into the forecastle, to fetch Todd’s belongings himself, that the truth starts to sink in. Miserably, he does as he’s told. He looks over his shoulder a dozen times as he trundles down onto the docks.

The second he’s within arm’s reach, Margo snags Todd by the arm. As she drags him away, presumably shouting the plan into his ear, she makes a circling motion with her hand above her head, signaling the harbor master. A stream of whistles follows, to announce the ship’s departure. Dockhands pry huge, hulking ropes off of their posts. Water slews off the anchor, as its herculean chain pries it out of the water. The ship starts to drift downriver. Only then does Eliot join Fen on the main deck.

“Was that wise?” Fen asks.

Todd and Margo disappear into the crowd, presumably to book it to the _Prospera_ , so she can depart in time to follow them.

“I wanted to save at least someone from all this,” Eliot shoots back.

“’Save?’” she laughs. “Like Her Majesty saved you, after that embarrassing coquetry you put me through today? Running away! To perform in–”

“No one’s more grateful for her mercy than I am,” he says, not untruthfully.

“That’ll be the last mercy you see for a long time, Lord Waugh,” Fen sneers.

He wants to take the bait. Retorts burn in his throat like a lit fuse. He bites his tongue instead. She has to think his spirit’s been crushed. If she keeps too close an eye on him, he’ll never get away.

One last role, then. The defeated wretch.

It’s not so hard. He curls up by the portside guns, batting the cannonballs back and forth in their little racks like a cat, as gulls swoop around over their heads. He plops his chin onto his forearm, gazing out at the sea. The ship plods along, out of the mouth of the Thames, and farther into open waters.

He doesn’t expect a sudden panic to overtake him, when they’re about a hundred miles offshore. Even though they never lose sight of the English coast, something rather like homesickness floods through his veins, only stronger. There’s this insane urge, to jump overboard and swim back now, while everything he knows and loves is still within reach.

A few other sailors shoot glances at the cliffs too. He wonders what they’re leaving behind. _Who_ they’re leaving behind. Spouses? Siblings? Parents? Children of their own? Friends?

Or is it poverty? Broken hearts? Boring livelihoods? How many of them boarded thinking they had no other choice too?

A tiny cloud of white sails flutters in his periphery. The _Prospera_. His guardian angel. He knows he can’t stare at her for too long, but he breathes easier whenever he does. She doesn’t ever vanish below the horizon as the day goes on, every time he sneaks a glance. If he stole an eyeglass from the lieutenant, perhaps he’d see Margo, barking at the helmsman, or Todd perched at the prow. Maybe one of them has an eyeglass of their own, and together they’re rolling their eyes, at how he’s moping around like this.

There’s nothing to do except find some way to pass the time, waiting for nightfall. Since he has no plans to take a trip like this in the future, he tries to enjoy the experience at least a little. The salty air fills his lungs, cleaner than any he’s taken on his holidays in the north. The sun’s heat bears down high above, turning the deck into a sweltering kiln.

His mind initially recoils again at the idea of changing into something lighter. It takes a few hours, but eventually, he forces himself go on the hunt for his clothes trunks. Any glint of gold in the night might give him away. He finds a loose black shirt and a pair of dirt-brown trousers, slipping them on in the dark and damp of the hold.

Stowing his wedding clothes in their place is the strangest experience. When he’d put each piece on this morning, they’d become both a suit of armor, and the bars of his new prison, all at once. Now their fibers also hold every second of his joy and freedom in the Blackspire. How they’re able to contain all that, without unravelling or exploding, defies expectation. Part of him wants to find some way to bring them along, as a memento. But they are just ornaments in the end, aren’t they? Like Nigel taking his crown off. The clothes don’t make the man. His _memories_ of what happened are what make them comforting, and distressing, to look at. If he does manage to make it back to London, what is a memento, against the endless depths of Quentin’s eyes, or the wonderful curves in the dimples of his smile.

The same can be said for all his other possessions down here. All his books, hats, furs, games, trinkets. Yesterday, they served to ground him. They were little claims he could stake. Proof he could call some place _his_. Some semblance of belonging, and power. Then they’d been uprooted, just like he had. Swept up, and deposited somewhere else for safekeeping.

Eventually, he could unpack them all again, sure, until one day they became boring, broken, worn through, or shredded. Then he’d toss them aside, maybe replacing them, maybe not….

The things that really matter aren’t nearly so disposable, he thinks. The people he’s met in theatre, the bonds he’s made with them, are going to be his new home. They will ground him in any place he settles in. If Fen gets the privilege of going off to make a New World all her own, then so does Eliot.

After he locks everything back up, he spends the rest of the day twiddling his thumbs. He can’t get too familiar with the crew, so any games of cards or dice are out. He’s not about to go back down to fetch a book, and none of his favorites would hold his attention for long anyway. In the end, he winds up exploring the _Miranda_ ’s nooks and crannies. He examines the mechanism that turns the rudder. Learns where the cook and the ship’s doctor keep themselves. Tries to come up with names for all the cannons.

Darkness creeps in around seven o’clock, based on the bells the first mate rings. He tries to stay as hydrated as possible, and eats heartily at dinner, ensuring he’ll have enough energy for his own little voyage. Fen, at first, seems determined to retire only if he goes with her, no matter how many times he tells her not to wait up. When the eleventh hour strikes, and Eliot shows no signs of giving in, Fen finally storms below deck in a huff. An eerie quiet descends on the ship. He keeps expecting to hear the chirping of crickets, only to realize they’ve been replaced with the groaning of timber, the flapping of sails, the creaking of ropes. A chill settles over him too. There’s nothing to brace against the night wind. Total darkness lies just beyond the light of the oil lamps. Except, of course, for a little speck of fire, trailing behind them. Eliot’s own North Star.

At two bells, he abandons his spot by the portside cannons, and tip toes his way to the captain’s cabin. He knocks twice, drops that subtle hint about his enemies, and the man shuffles him inside without a word.

Climbing into the lifeboat, suspended midair over the ocean, Eliot’s stomach and his heart decide they want to switch places. He starts to make some quip to the captain, asking for any advice, but the bleary-eyed fellow’s already manning the pulley. Together, they lower the dingy a few meters at a time, one nauseating swoop following the other. Halfway down, Eliot grabs both oars, so he doesn’t have to fumble around for them in the dark.

When he hits the water, a splash of icy spray chills his left side. The moon’s only half full. It gives him just enough light to detach the boat from the ropes. Once freed, the little craft starts drifting away from the _Miranda._ He feels, more than sees, the hulking ship continue on without him.

The winds get stronger. They’re his only company, besides the lapping of the sea against the bottom of his boat.

That is, until he looks up, and his jaw drops at the sight of every star in the sky. Despite the manic flutter of his heart, he gazes up at all the constellations, moved beyond words. Look at them! All the myths and legends, suspended in time above his head. He tries to memorize this moment. For himself, and for any occasion in the future where he might get to tell this story. How small he feels. How perfectly insignificant and humble and unique his own tiny spark of a life is.

He’s so caught up in the task, in the depth of his own awe, that he nearly passes over the brightest glow on the horizon as he scans the heavens. One particularly enthusiastic wave sends his boat rocking, and he drags himself back to reality, settling down on his seat. He makes a few awkward strokes with the oars, so he’s properly oriented with his back to the _Prospera_. As he begins to row, his stupidly long legs cramp up quickly, and he can’t really stretch them out without breaking his stroke. Every time he cranes his neck to look, the ship’s never any closer than the last time he checked. That’s something he’s always hated about rowing. Facing away from his destination in order to get there.

Half an hour in, and he realizes he should’ve napped today. He hasn’t stayed up this late in years. The strain on his eyes, on his arms, his back. It’s diabolical. Curling up underneath the seats gets more appealing with every jerk of the oars. Little song verses bounce around in his skull. He can’t settle on any of them long enough to keep his rhythm. But the more he works, hour after hour, the closer he gets to Q.

As he rows on and on, the stars flicker out, the sky lightens and greys, and then birds start calling from far off. No, not birds. Sailors. Shouting. Blinking sweat out of his eyes, he turns to see the shadowy mass of the _Prospera_ not ten miles away.

Oh he could cry. He probably does, and he’s just too tired to realize it.

A rowboat detaches from the ship. Todd and three others with lanterns paddle out to meet him. He tells Todd to quit flashing that blinding smile of his, but the man ignores him, pulling Eliot into a fierce hug. Embarrassingly, he almost falls asleep in his arms right there, instead of telling Todd off for his familiarity. But then again, Todd’s not really out of line, is he? They’re on equal footing now, for the first time in their lives. One quick hug can’t hurt. He returns it with more enthusiasm than he expects from himself.

They return to the _Prospera_ , and Eliot manages to stay awake long enough to climb a rope ladder thrown down by the quartermaster. Margo ushers him into her cabin on the ‘tween deck, and she bars the door. Without being asked, she gently lets him use her lap as a pillow, and he passes out a second later, lulled by the waves, finally realizing how gentle they can be.

They make it to Dover the following day. The city’s massive white chalk cliffs start off looking like little more than teeth, gnawing at the ocean on the edge of the world. They soon grow in size, of course, until they dwarf even the pearly gates of St. Peter.

When they disembark from the ship, and sit down at an inn for some lunch, Todd makes a well-meaning but senseless suggestion: that they ought to tour the famous castle, since it’s so close. Margo has no qualms about smacking him upside the head for it. If he wants to go off gallivanting like a tourist, he can do it on his own time, and with his own coin. Eliot tries to stick up for him, but he can’t muster any real effort. Now that they've landed back on English soil, he’s grown even more nervous than he’d been aboard the _Miranda_. Not out of fear of discovery; if Margo isn’t worried, then he has no reason to be. But he’s itching to get to London, and yet dreading it more fiercely than anything in the world.

What’s he going to say? What can he _possibly_ say? Maybe he should just… offer to be a fucking welcome mat for Q to step on whenever he comes home, and then go from there.

Even on the fastest horses – which Margo refuses to hire, because their money has to last them all the way home – he knows it’ll still take them another day to get back to the capital. That doesn’t stop him from getting twitchy and bitchy about heading out as soon as they can. After a quick stop at the market for some provisions, they head north, stopping for the night in Canterbury. Though he’s still recovering from his midnight trek, Eliot barely sleeps for all his fretting. He wastes hours recalling the plots of Chaucer’s _Tales_ , both the moral and the debauched, wishing desperately that Q was beside him in bed, so they could fall asleep debating them together, drifting off to the soothing sound of each other’s voices.

The next morning, they pass through Chatham and the newly founded Dartford, and Eliot’s nerves are fraying by the minute. On the road, he eats a whole loaf of bread from their provisions by himself, just for the sake of doing something _besides_ trying to figure out the right combination of apologies and love confessions in his head.

London looms by nightfall. Once they’re through the south gates, and they turn their horses over, half of him wants to sink to his knees and kiss the cobblestones, no matter how filthy they are. This is more of a homecoming than any trip he’s ever been on.

The other half, though, is about ready to sprint right back out the gates, and run screaming for the hills.

They head for The Whitespire, Todd lagging as he lugs his trunk in his arms. Eliot spends the whole trek imagining every expression Q could make when he shows up at his front door. Relief, exasperation, fury, disgust, lovesick doe-eyed hope. They’re all possible. He _still_ hasn’t landed on the right speech. If he even should do a speech. Maybe if he just goes for Quentin’s belt and wraps his lips around him, that’ll be good enough?

No, stupid, starting off with his own sonnet would be better. Like the one Q wrote him, only _Eliot_ ’s now the imperfect actor on the stage… only this really isn’t the time to “hear with his eyes,” so, um–

“Eliot!”

He startles out of his thoughts, nearly stepping in horse shit in the process. Todd catches him by the arm. He pulls him over to the side of the street. His trunk goes swinging down to the ground, almost hitting a tanner’s stall.

“God, you’re a mess,” Margo chides.

Eliot looks at her helplessly, his eyes as big as saucers.

“Well? You gonna go see him?”

“I– uh–”

“Or do you need a change of clothes first?” Todd grunts, awkwardly saluting the tanner in apology, as he rights his trunk again.

Eliot snaps his jaw shut. Any diversion’s a good diversion. “Todd, you don’t work for me anymore, you don’t have to–”

“Oh,” Todd frowns, puzzled. Like the situation’s a complex riddle he still hasn’t quite solved yet. “Right. I just meant, like, I know you? And if that’ll make you feel more comfortable–”

“Just go!” Margo barks. “Now!”

Todd turns on her, in a surprising show of protectiveness. “What if he needs to find us? In case, you know, things don't work out?”

Eliot’s stomach erupts into boiling sludge. Seeing the look of terror on his face, Margo pivots Eliot by the shoulders, and pushes him down the road. “My house’s two blocks away from the tavern where we always ate lunch. When you two finally emerge from your courtly-love fuck fest, me and this tactless fucking tadpole’ll be there. Trying to brainstorm what the fuck he’s gonna do with the rest of his life. Josh could always use a book-keeper.”

Eliot turns back around to see Margo grab Todd by the ear, and she drags him down a side street.

“Tell Q he owes me a tragedy after all this!” she calls behind her.

Fuck, Todd was right, Eliot should change. He smells. His curls are probably no better than a bird’s nest. And he’s practically in mourning clothes. But his feet are already jerking forward, remembering the way to Quentin’s place like he’s walked it a thousand times.

Terror scrapes at the inside of his breastbone. That hollow feeling inside him is slowly dissipating. But in its place? He doesn’t know; something not exactly hopeful, but not exactly wrecked either. Whatever it is, he just knows he’s filling up with it.

When he gets to the ramshackle apartments, a single candle sputters in the hallway to Quentin’s room. Eliot hears nothing inside. Not a creak in the floor. Not a rustle between the bedsheets. It takes him fifteen minutes to knock, and that’s only after he literally has to push his own arm forward, to rap against the door.

Silence.

Quentin… may be sleeping.

It doesn’t matter that Eliot knows from experience that Q’s a light sleeper. This’s… clearly the one night he is _deep_ in his dreams. Eliot can leave him to it, come back tomorrow, after he had time to–

He makes himself knock again. Harder.

Two agonizing minutes pass. Still nothing.

Right. Um. There’s the chance that Quentin’s… more than just awake. He very well might be… purposefully ignoring any knocks. Or, rather, any knocks from one person in particular. Which is fair. He should give Quentin the chance to berate and reject him.

Although, how would he know that Eliot was back? After all the times Eliot insisted they’d eventually have to separate – and with how final their last goodbye seemed – why would he expect Eliot to be the one pounding on his door now?

Well, because he’s Quentin. And he has persistent hopes like that. That’s just who he is.

Which, of course, goes directly against why he’s not answering the door right now.

Setting his teeth on edge, Eliot tries the handle, and finds it locked. Okay, so Quentin’s out for the night? And Eliot can wait here for him, that’s fine. It’ll be torture, but he’s a patient, mature man who can humbly sit on this doorstep until–

He jiggles the handle. Grips it tight and tugs. Pounds harder.

The last time he was here, they’d thought they had limited time together, and tried to make the most of it. And the time before that, he’d thought they’d run out of time entirely.

Shit. A whole new fear is whispering in his ear now. Quentin’s darkness. It wouldn’t make him… he couldn’t possibly….

Eliot braces himself, and rams his shoulder against the wood. After five more tries, he busts the door down. The neighbors may very well be opening up their own doors, checking for burglars, but all Eliot cares about is that Quentin’s not in the room after all. Everything is exactly as it was.

This is not exactly reassuring. Quentin could be anywhere. Anything could be happening to him right now. Any number of dark thoughts could be swarming around his skull, and Eliot’s not there to fight them off.

Shit. God fucking damnit. Where the hell is he? How can Eliot possibly find him?

His eyes drift over the spartan room, stupidly looking for any sign of where Quentin might be. There’s no food in the shelves. The ink pots have a smattering of dust on them. The bin is full of nothing but broken quills. He closes the door after a beat, plunging the space into darkness, except for the glow of moonlight through the window.

Should he light a candle? Sit at the desk and wait? Take a page out of Margo’s book, and boldly perch on the bed? Slump to the ground outside the goddamn door like a dog?

And, alright, give him a break for being utterly exhausted here, but… how much trouble would he get in… if he wound up… just… _accidentally_ falling asleep here, until Q came back?

All of these questions are becoming a constant refrain inside him, ‘round and ‘round, never answered, until his eyes start to droop on their own. In the end, the bed is far too fucking tempting to resist.

Not wanting to foul the sheets, he strips off his clothes and folds them on the floor, within reach in case….

Well, just in case.

His nose fills with the heady smell of Quentin’s skin the second he settles on the lumpy mattress. The familiarity of it, the comfort, the delight, the longing he has to carry this around in his lungs for all time, balloons inside him. It cocoons his heart, closing his throat up and bringing tears to his eyes. He remembers the thrust of Quentin’s strong hips, one of his legs thrown over Eliot's shoulder, as he spent himself down Eliot’s throat. And the solid, undeniable weight of his body leaning into, then onto, Eliot’s chest, as he fell asleep in his arms, right here.

Eliot has to clamp down on all the emotions, even as he gasps for air, controlling himself with the very last of his willpower. He’s not about to let Quentin find him drenching his pillow with saltwater beyond the point of use.

He curls up on his side, training his ears to the door. Smashing it in has left the place vulnerable. He winds up praying that no one thinks of robbing the place, on tonight of all nights.

Disappointingly, that’s his last coherent thought, before he’s out cold.

The sun blazes into every corner of the room the next morning. The moment Eliot blinks himself awake, and sees the still undisturbed room, his panic rises all the way through the roof. Where the FUCK is Q?!

He yanks his clothes back on, pacing from one side of the room to the other, practically tearing his hair out. After how far he’s come, with how much he’s both craved and dreaded coming back, he’d expected to have some kind of _resolution_ by now. Not this transitory, in-between time, extending on and on. A purgatory that’s really just another hell all its own.

The best he can do is head back outside, and sit on the stoop of the general entryway like a vagabond.

He trains his eye on the street once he’s taken up his post, swiping grime from his eyes. He holds his gangly knees close to his chest, so they don’t stick out into traffic.

The world slowly comes to life around him. Stray cats chase the last of the scavenging birds and rodents away from the refuse in the street. Merchants unlock their doors and open their windows, anticipating the heat of the day. An apothecary stumbles out into the morning light, takes one look around, and lurches back up the stairs.

“Mr. Johnson?” a hesitant voice calls out. “Mr. Johnson? Hello?”

A blonde woman, heading for the apothecary before she recognized him, approaches Eliot at a steady pace. She’s wearing an olive, handknit shawl over a plain dress and a worn leather apron, slightly singed at the edges. Her arms are full with her purchases, and she clutches them to her chest as a monk might his sacred texts. She must know him from The Blackspire, learning his name during the spectacle of the queen examining him. He tries to wave her off politely, until she asks whether he’s looking for Quentin.

Eliot launches to his feet. “What? Yes! Fuck, where is he? Has anybody seen him? I’ve been out of my mind since yesterday and he hasn’t been here once and–”

“Calm down,” she says, wryly scowling at his volume. “He’s not here. He left London a few days ago, right after the play closed.”

“How did you– Where did you– Where’d he go?! I need to see him!”

She puts a hand out in front of his face to stop him. Azure stains pockmark her palm. “I’m a seamstress for the Chamberlain’s Men,” she says. “Q told Kady… told _Miss Orloff_ that he was leaving for Stratford-on-Avon, for some family business.”

Oh. Quentin went home.

To see Arielle? To visit Teddy, or his father?

Fuck. That’s _another_ day’s ride. God, and he _just_ got here.

No, alright, it's fine. If Rupert…if _Nigel_ can fight his way out of a Monster’s control, Eliot can deal with another round of saddle-chaffing torture like a big boy. And he’ll have all that extra riding time to try and figure out what to say. And to figure out what to do if everything goes wrong, or if everything goes right. He just…has to take things one step at a time.

So. The first step is…probably begging Margo for some gold – or, more likely, a handful of shillings – to get him started on the road again.

“Right,” he mutters. He turns to the seamstress, bowing respectfully. “Thank you for your time. I guess, uh, I’d better go after him.”

Strangely, she beckons him to follow her. “I actually think Miss Orloff has something of yours? It was left at The Blackspire, after everyone went their separate ways. If you come with me, you can take it with you, and head out right after. It’s a booklet, I think? Of the script?”

Damn. This whole time, he’d forgotten all about it. He wants to bludgeon himself with a battering ram at the realization. How the fuck had he left it behind?

Well fuck him with a porcupine, but even if it delays him, he’s not leaving London without it.

He nods, and trails behind the seamstress as she leads him across town. They arrive at a two-story building a few miles from Tower Bridge. Curiously, she has a key of her own to get inside, rather than knocking and waiting for entry. While he waits on Orloff’s doorstep, Eliot shifts on his aching legs. He turns towards the street, to try cracking the tense joints in his back.

“Mr. Johnson?” the seamstress prods.

She’s returned. The folio’s not the only thing in her arms. Besides an old rucksack, she’s got an… outfit for him? Or, rather, a humble yet dashing scarlet doublet, with subtle, pressed diamonds down the front and around the high collar. There’s even an airy, clean white shirt to go along with it.

“You look like you could use these. Not now, obviously, in case you have to, um, sleep on the road. But for when you see him.”

Eliot’s first instinct is to rebuke the offer.

Was he so obvious, during _Brian and Nigel_ , that even this seamstress knows about the two of them? He’s taken one too many chances showing his affections for Q in public before. Plus, right now? When he and Q aren’t even– she can’t be encouraged to think–

Wait.

She used Quentin’s nickname too, just now. And she’s welcome in this house – the house of the pointedly unmarried Kady Orloff. So welcome, in fact, as to have a key of her own.

And Q had gone from dodging Orloff’s fists, to getting her blatant permission to use her theater, in just the span of a few days. Presumably after apologizing to _someone_ that Orloff had told him to “at least say sorry” to.

All very interesting tidbits.

And the biggest, most crucial fact to consider: Eliot is free now. He has to remember that. He’s free from his parents, his noble status, his reputation, maybe even his entire surname, if he wants to go that far. He's got nothing to lose. 

That simply leaves him with this sympathetic stranger, who supports Q and his relationship with Eliot, enough to offer Eliot some nice clothes for the road.

The surprises keep coming.

“I’ll return your kindness the second I return to London,” he gulps. He goes to take the bundle from her, and rests his hands atop hers briefly, a sign of his sincerity.

She offers him a half smile. Just as he turns to go, she calls out for him to wait one last time. She emerges from the kitchen with a little purse. A few sovereigns clink inside it. He really does have to refuse her now, but she won’t hear of it. “Q bought a share in the Chamberlain’s Men. Just think of it as an advance on his wages,” she says.

Eliot’s almost entirely sure that that’s not how it works.

She raises a cheeky eyebrow at the look on his face, daring him to argue.

God, there is a _story_ here. He can read between the lines.

But he’ll get that story later. Right now, he’s got the love of his life to chase down.

Not sure what else to do – and internally begging that this won’t end up being just a waste of Quentin’s money – he awkwardly waves goodbye, as he tucks the clothes and folio into the rucksack, pockets the purse, and departs.

He’s not going to stop by Margo’s, even though he knows he should. Honestly? Either he’ll take a little longer on his courtly-love fuck fest than she expects him to, or he’ll find her in a few days with his crushed heart in his hands. She’ll help him deal with either fallout eventually. So he crosses the Tower Bridge, hikes his way across the city, and uses one of the sovereigns to rent himself a chestnut mare, tying his rucksack to the saddle.

The road to Stratford-on-Avon is…

Well, it’s a bit shit, isn’t it?

Barely paved here, sinking into miles of mud there. He tries to stick to the routes that hired carriages favor, and he keeps his eyes peeled for signposts, telling him he’s getting closer. Ancient beech and elm trees whip by. He canters past fertile fields and sloping pastures without so much as a curious glance. The occasional inn at the occasional crossroad tries to lure him in, as the day gets longer. But he resists, managing to make it to his destination, panting as much as his horse, with one or two hours of daylight to spare.

The village is cut straight out of a pastoral. Steep, thatched rooves for miles. Overhanging gallery floors above every shop and household, outfitted with those characteristic, curtained dormer windows. A herd of sheep wander through the square, while their shepherd and his dog try to wrangle them homeward. Eliot can instantly see where certain pieces of Fillory came from – what with the overgrown vines hanging off the streetlamps, the definitely fae-filled forest in the distance, and the huge town well in the middle, which has probably seen its fair share of wishes.

Most of the shopkeepers are shuttering their storefronts for the day. They shoot him curious glances as he passes by. Some lose interest, when it becomes clear he’s not in a hurry to make a last-minute purchase. A few, though, seem willing to give him the time of day.

As the lamplighters begin making their rounds, he manages to convince a gaggle of vegetable farmers that he’s a prospective tenant, hoping to rent a room at the old Coldwater place. It’s just up the road, right? They tell him it’s actually three miles to the east, past the candlemakers and the plum orchard. If he reaches the peach orchard, the one with the other, smaller well, then he’s gone too far.

When he arrives, he’s exhausted down to his bones. Miserable, hopeful, contrite, eager, and maybe even ready. Because he thinks he’s got it. Finally, he knows what he’s going to say. He’s figured out how long he should talk for, at first, and then where he should pause, if Q has something to say, and when he should keep going and barrel through, in case Q gets caught up in some tiny particulars, because every little thing is so important to him, and that's beautiful.

_Alright. Deep breath in. Deep breath out. Try not to fall over yourself._

He dismounts from his mare, tying her to the hitching post. At the very last minute, throwing all propriety out the window, he wiggles out of his black shirt right there on the side of the road. He drags the white shirt over his head. The snug red doublet goes after it. He fastens the little bronze hooks down his chest, tugging it down to his waist. Combing his fingers through his hair and smoothing his sideburns, he grabs his script like it’s a lucky talisman, and approaches the stoop, as presentable as he’ll ever be.

The house has, admittedly, seen better years – considering it’s been abandoned for a number of them. Some kids have been chucking rocks through the second-floor window. Cracks and holes split the panes. White paint is curling up and flecking off along the edifice. The roof timbers look like they’re starting to sink in, from too many winters of accumulated snow. Weeds and crabgrass poke through the brickwork along the porch.

There’s also a concerning number of dismembered pieces of furniture – chairs, end tables, step stools and the like – piled up next to the very ajar front door. Some rolled-up, moth-eaten carpets, a splintered set of drawers that’ve been pulled out of their chest, and a stack of huge, unravelling baskets make up another pile next to the first one. Strong, dancing firelight pours out the front door from within.

Eliot doesn’t hear any movement inside.

Cautiously, he steps into the foyer. Empty coat hooks dot along the left-hand wall, which turns into a wide, cherrywood staircase up to the darkened second floor. The parlor looks cozy enough. Most of its former contents being outside almost makes that moot, but he can picture the old layout a bit. The whitewashed walls are pristine, and a few portraits of people with Quentin’s chin and nose and eyes hang along them. A long, polished maple desk, with stacks of old mail and almanacs, sits undisturbed beneath a window with drawn clementine curtains. Beyond that, the square dining table and its four benches have been pushed away from the middle of the kitchen, to stand against the back wall. The massive stone hearth, which takes up almost the entire right wall, has a few silver platters, drinking glasses, and brass candlesticks on display above the mantle. A roasted, seasoned chicken rests on a spit away from the flames, like it was forgotten there. Chopped carrots, potatoes, and a lump of melting butter are in an iron pan off to the side, waiting to be roasted. The back door out to the garden’s wide open too.

As Eliot wanders around inside, he tries to control his thundering heart. Over and over, he fails to process what the hell’s been going on in here. All this chaos… like someone’s moving in, or moving out. But there’s nothing methodical about it. Just… general upheaval.

Then a shadow passes by the back doorway.

When Eliot jogs after it, he emerges out into a low-walled yard. The whole garden has been outright demolished. Every plant from the garden has been uprooted. Dandelions, thyme, parsley, lavender, dill, and one very dead rosemary bush. They’re all scattered about like the detritus from a landslide. Thin, tall stumps are all that remain of two healthy, now felled, apple trees. The axe guilty of the crime looks like it was flung aside, bouncing off the wall to lie neglected in the grass.

Pacing between the trees, and stacks of excavated path-stones, is one haggard, harried Quentin Coldwater.

The sinking sun brushes an orange glow across his skin. It turns his ill-fitting clothes into an array of autumn shades. His hair is barely held off his neck by a scraggly ribbon. His breathes in wheezes. He cracks his knuckles, then keeps bending and twisting the joints, even after all the snaps have been spent.

“Q?” Eliot calls out.

Quentin stumbles, but his head doesn’t turn. His knees give way, and he goes crashing forward. Eliot can’t catch him in time, but he lurches over to him all the same. Quentin’s fingers curl into fists in the loose dirt.

Fear keeps Eliot from putting his arms around him. Not fear for his own safety – never that, never in a million years when it comes to Q. He just doesn’t know what the fuck to do. He has no idea whatsoever. He’s never seen Q like this before.

Belatedly, he notices something else. There it is. It’s come back. The chirp of crickets in the grass. The croaks of frogs, in the forest beyond the wall. He hasn’t been paying attention, these past few days. To how loud the quiet can be, outside the boundaries of the city.

“Q. It’s…it’s me. It’s Eliot,” he ventures.

No words.

“Is everything– What’ve you– I, um, I’m here to…I, I found you. I’m here,” he tries again lamely.

_Come on, Q. Come on. Please._

Eliot’s ears are ringing. His lungs are on fire. When his eyes dart around, taking in the scene one more time, making sure all this isn’t from some kind of burglary gone wrong, a flicker of movement on the ground reveals how badly Quentin’s arms are shaking.

“Hey,” he soothes, desperate to touch, hoping Q might need it just as badly.

When he hesitantly settles a hand on his shoulder, Q’s body only stiffens more. Then the shaking gets worse. Going against all his instincts, Eliot doesn’t take his hand away. A little memory flickers in his brain. About how grounding touch can be.

“Let’s get inside,” he says. “Dinner’s almost ready, and everything looks better when you’ve got a full stomach, yeah?”

After an endless, tense moment, where their breathing seems to almost synchronize, Quentin nods, and he pushes himself up. His hand still clutches that clump of dirt. Taking all his worry and terror, and chucking it right over the garden wall, Eliot wraps his own hand around Quentin’s, tracing a line across the side with his thumb. Eventually, Quentin’s fist relaxes, and they both feel the soil trickle back down to the ground.

Inside the kitchen, Eliot leaves Q standing close to the fire, while he fetches one of the benches for him to sit on. Eyeing a large basin of clear water, Eliot finds a shallow bowl in a cupboard, and pours some in with a pitcher. He sits astride the bench, settles Q on it, and places the bowl between them.

A snap from the blazing logs draws their attention. Eliot uses it as his excuse to stare at Quentin’s face, as he in turn continues to watch the flames.

His skin is streaked with dirt and sweat and tears, and he’s still breathtaking. His glassy brown eyes are shadowed, with circles as dark as bruises, and he’s still the embodiment of all that is good and kind and warm in Eliot's world. 

Eliot wants to run his lips over every deep crease in his forehead. He wants to count every freckle, until he’s gone cross-eyed. He wants to nuzzle his nose along the smooth expanse of his flushed cheeks. He wants to feel the scrape of his stubble catch against his chin. He wants to tell him, with every reassuring word he knows, and all the ones that he doesn’t, that everything’s okay now.

He takes a cloth he snagged from the rack on the wall, dips it in, and he swallows tentatively before he starts to wipe the dirt away.

Quentin’s eyes flutter closed, as the cloth drags across his face, and he sags a little. A long moment of silence passes, interrupted only by the dribbling of water, and the crackling fire. 

A tiny infinity later, Quentin asks, “How long do I get you for?”

The first thing Eliot thinks to say, before he bites his tongue and stops himself, is “forever.”

And, as far as he tries shoving the thought down, as much as he knows he doesn’t have the right to say it, or the power to make it true, it still bobs like a cork right back up to the surface anyway. Now that his parents and Fen and all of fucking “high society” are leagues away, there’s nothing to stop his desperate longings. He wants to be with him tomorrow, and the next day, and for all time after. He wants to spend months just holding his hand, years buried in the tight heat of his body, decades delving into his mouth and nipping and kissing and sucking and worshiping his lips, and a lifetime just hearing his voice. Greedy bastard that he is, that’s still not enough. He wants to declare to the universe that he’s going to be with Quentin long after they’re dead and gone. He wants to be wrapped up in his soul for all time, like that old couple in the myth, where Jupiter and Mercury transform them into intertwined trees on a hill.

* * *

[ ](https://yourtinseltinkerbell.tumblr.com/post/630338830449459200/a-tiny-infinity-later-quentin-asks-how-long)

* * *

He sinks the cloth into the bowl again. As he wrings it out, and he goes to swipe another streak away, Eliot answers, “For as long as you’ll have me.”

After barely talking to anyone the past few days, his voice is still so raspy. He clears his throat, and almost goes to push an errant curl out of his face. He forgets the wet cloth is still in his hands, until it’s centimetres from his scalp. He pulls it back to stare at it, almost offended. He’s not about to, like, collapse or anything, but his mind must be getting foggy around the edges.

He’s still got the folio under one arm too. He places it on the ground. Quentin flicks his eyes at it, then turns away.

Eliot moves on to Quentin’s hands, washing them clean one after the other, marveling at the little ridges along his knuckles, the writer’s callouses along his middle and ring fingers. It’s so surreal, that he’s _here_ , that his beloved is _right there_. That he’s touching him, holding him. It’s impossible. He’d never, never let himself believe something like this could happen.

At least the aches over every inch of him are enough proof it’s real. His awareness of his own limbs has come surging back, now that he’s not racing to Quentin’s side. There’s that stabbing ache in his tense shoulders. The liquid jelly of his legs. The burning in his arms from a rowing a boat.

They’re all worth it, of course.

Later. He’ll rest later. He’ll curl up wherever he’s wanted.

For now, Quentin seems fine with letting Eliot maneuver him however he needs to. That’s gotta mean something, right? Even if Q hasn’t exactly responded to, or clarified, the whole how-long-he wants-Eliot-to-stick-around-for thing.

He gently folds Quentin’s hands into his lap, and goes to set the bowl aside. From there, he grabs the pan of vegetables, fixing a grate over the fire to set it on, and then gets a spoon to stir the melting butter in.

“You cook?”

There’s nothing in Quentin’s voice. Not a hint that he really cares. But he’s talking. And he’s talking to Eliot. That’s all he can hope for.

Eliot offers a lopsided, humble shrug, waving the spoon around. “Growing up, I always found these little rebellions, I guess. Anything a noble son wasn’t supposed to do, I tried my hand at. One time I snuck down to the kitchens. Learned what I could. Got caught, like always, and then my father made sure I never did it again. But some things stick with you.”

The butter’s all gone, bubbling along the potatoes, soaking in and making them crispy around the edges.

When Q doesn’t remark any of that, he goes on. You never leave your audience with silence unless it’s important.

“I like doing it. Doing things like this,” he explains. “Being the one who does something for someone else. Not, like, um, like a servant has to? But like a… um… a regular person just… does?”

The longer he tries to keep talking, the more Eliot feels like he’s just sticking his foot in his mouth. Quentin’s always been better at just _saying things_ , as they come to him, and then seeing what happens from there.

The quiet settles back over them again, worse this time. He turns the carrots and the potatoes over. The pan spits fat out onto his fingers. His stomach is squirming, all his prepared speeches fizzing in his lungs. As he dishes them both some chicken, and a serving of the vegetables, he suddenly feels a mauling hunger spiking inside him too. It’s enough to make him almost woozy, what with all the smells wafting around. The humid weight of the country air. The herbs, charred along the chicken skin.

Only once he nudges Q, to put his fork into his mouth, does Eliot start eating too. He wolfs everything down. It’s another excuse to keep his mouth busy, instead of saying something.

Quentin doesn’t finish half of it before he sets his portion down.

Right. Come on. Eliot has to say _words_ of some kind.

Asking about the state of the house might just set things off again. He could start with the story of Margo, barging in on him on the _Miranda_. Q’d want to hear that, surely?

Shit, he wishes he’d begged her to come with him. Not that she would’ve caved, obviously. She would have insisted all this was his shit to sort out, not hers. But this is just–

Quentin yanks him out of his thoughts when he asks, “Little rebellions, huh?”

Eliot instantly puts his plate aside. “Uh huh. Cooking, planting, polishing a saddle, fetching something from a market.”

“Auditioning for a play before you get married.”

Eliot winces, pressing his teeth together. “The engagement happened after that, you know.”

Quentin hangs his head. Eliot sees him eyeing the script one more time. He keeps his eyes trained on it when he says, “Fine. Whatever. But how long are you really here for, until this little rebellion’s over?”

“As long as you want me here.”

“Really? There’s no one who gets you after me?”

The question actually stings, once Eliot gives it the chance to sink in. Like Eliot hasn’t just spent the last two days using every second of his new free agency to get here. Like someone else is always loaning Eliot out, to collect him with interest later. And, yeah, maybe that is how he used to see himself. But he doesn’t anymore. He won’t let anyone own him, just like Margo said. He doesn’t belong to anyone, except for one beautiful, precious, wonderful man. Because Eliot knows better now.

If an author creates a character, and presents their story to the masses, the character’s not his anymore. Q didn’t mean for Nigel to rescue Brian, but Eliot decided he would. Likewise, when a father makes a child, that child isn’t the father’s property, no matter how much he tries to lie and convince the child they are. Because a child grows, learns, dances, kisses, loves, all on their own.

Eliot Waugh, the real Eliot, now and forever, will not be bartered or sold away.

But he can give himself to another, of his own free will.

“No one,” he reassures. Slowly, ready for the _smack_ of Quentin batting his hand away, he tries to reach out again, to offer another comforting touch. “I came back– I came _here_ , to be with you.”

Quentin shakes his head. “Until Fen catches you. Or your father finds out where you are.”

“They won’t. And even if they do, I’ll never leave you. I promise. It’ll never happen again.”

“The thing is, I just don’t believe that. I can’t.” Q goes back to fidgeting with his hands, trying in vain to crack his knuckles again. His head wobbles in place as his eyes dart around the room. “Frankly, I’m having a hard time believing you’re physically here at all.”

“I am here,” Eliot insists, rising out of his seat, drawn to him, always. Drawn to anything Quentin has to say. He goes and kneels at his feet. “I escaped the ship, and made it back to London, and then rode here as soon as I–”

But Quentin just vaults off the bench, backing away. “Or you’re just a dream, or a vision. Or you’re a spirit, or some other fantastical thing. My melancholia could’ve cooked you up to torment me. I mean, I haven’t slept in days; it’s not impossible.”

For a moment, Eliot’s thrown back into his memories. He recalls that terrifying split second, when Q had crawled across his bedroom floor towards him. That flash, where Eliot thought the exact same thing, doubting every sense, before reality snapped back into place, and there was nothing in his head but _Q’s alive he’s alive alive alive alive breathing safe warm here._

“Here, take my hand,” he offers. “Feel me. I’m right here, okay?”

Q actually does bat it away this time. “But I can’t provide for you. Isn’t that what you said?”

Shit. Eliot’s having a hard time keeping up. Like Quentin keeps pelting racquet balls at him, and Eliot can’t return anything he’s served. He’s a smart, well-educated man, but sometimes Quentin makes leaps he can’t follow. And in this case, it’s not a plot in a story, where he’s trying to connect the dots. This is twisted logic. A logic that’s only trying to prove itself right, instead of letting Quentin see what’s right in front of his eyes. Facts can only do so much when a mind is trying to tear itself to pieces.

“Um, I guess, but–“

“And I’m just kidding myself, if I think for one second that I’ll be good enough for you. That you’ll actually want to stay, once you see how bad I get. Or you’ll get bored. Get sick of having nothing to do out here, no fancy parties or banquets or theater or court intrigue or any of the stuff you expect from life.”

“None of that matters,” Eliot says, ducking his head and trying to catch his eye. “You _are_ good enough. You’ll _always_ be good enough. Q, I–”

“It does matter. You _love_ all that. It’s a part of you.”

“A part of the _old_ me. Mostly. A lot of that was a part of the… the _costume_ I used to wear, every day. So much that I forgot I was wearing it a lot of the time, but–”

Quentin turns away, dismissing every bit of his argument. He abandons the kitchen to pace in the empty parlor.

Fear is starting to spike through Eliot’s stomach again, turning over the food inside it. Everything he says is wrong. He’s screwing this up so badly. He could bring up Q’s new share in the Chamberlain’s Men? In case he really is worried about those things? No, come on. That’s just like going fishing, and bringing a trowel instead of a net.

He keeps thinking it wasn’t supposed to go like this. Maybe he should have known that, deep down. He has to hope that this’s just…Destiny, getting one last vindictive sucker punch in, before it surrenders. Eliot takes a deep breath, to center himself. He winds up taking their dishes to the counter and staring out the window, in an effort to give Q some space. He stares at the hazy, dimming light in the sky. At the silhouettes of towering firs in the distance, making nameless, swaying mountains with their mercurial shapes. At the roiling indigo clouds encroaching from the north, threatening a deluge of rain before the night is out.

He can’t remember every sunset he’s spent with Q. Nor every sunrise.

He can remember plenty of the ones he spent without him. Too many to count. Too many to bear.

“I get it,” he chuckles harshly. “All the other times we’ve been together have been snatched away. They had a deadline. A limit. An expiration date. This, me, you, here. It’s like, why now, right? When every other time’s been ruined by something, or someone, eventually. By _me_ , most of the time.”

Quentin’s foot squeaks on the floor, unsteady, before it resumes.

Eliot turns around, facing the broad expanse of the empty room. He wishes it didn’t look so much like a stage. Bare. Waiting to be filled by action. There’s a distinct lack of furniture to hide behind.

And he has his speech, of course. His stupid speech.

It’s not just a few sentences. It’s a whole soliloquy. That’s the danger of loving someone who loves words. More than anyone else, they can’t resist a good monologue, and the other person knows it. There’s a reason people use them. They draw you in. The best dramas, the stories that wrap around your heart and settle over your soul, only reflect real life, after all.

It’s time to give the answer he’s always avoided giving. The one from their very first morning together. The one Quentin let him get away with dodging, generous man that he is.

“I kept running from you,” Eliot admits. Apologizes. “I kept telling myself I’d be braver; that I had to keep practicing and get better at it. But all the times I was tested, I let you down.”

Quentin yanks the ribbon out of his hair, sending it flying across the room.

Eliot’s neck itches to bend down, to look at the ground and hide his face. His throat tries to close up. That voice in his brain is screaming that he needs to shut his fucking mouth and forget all about this, because it’s not going to work and he’s a stupid, ungrateful, selfish weakling for hoping it would.

“Yeah, auditioning was a little rebellion,” he presses on, despite the voice. “I was doing something that _guaranteed_ my father would beat me bloody, if he found out. Probably with the broadsword he commissioned the day he got knighted. He always wanted a reason to use it. Whatever happened, even if I never got caught, I still knew my life would be over, in the end, no matter how happy it made me. I never thought I would escape it. I wasn’t allowed to think about escaping. With what happened with… with Logan… I didn’t have the _right_ to hope for anything better. I never had the right. Benedick Johnson was my little rebellion, but I made him flawed too, on purpose.”

Q strides up to one of the portraits on the wall, bracing himself before it with both arms. His shoulders are rigid. “’Flawed?’” he grinds out.

“Not that people like him _are_ flawed,” Eliot rushes to say. “I just… I was – very wrongly – taking advantage of how the world treats people who don’t fit into _its_ wrong definitions of–”

“You wanted everyone to treat you badly? On purpose?”

Eliot can feel a desperate edge coming into his voice, one he never planned on. He crosses over, stopping just a few feet away. He doesn’t mean to be begging for acceptance, but that’s what this’s turning into, and he doesn’t think he can stop it. “It would… keep me in my place. Remind me that I couldn’t get too comfortable, no matter how happy I felt. Even if I met Quentin Coldwater himself, impressed him with how much I loved his work, became a true member of the company? Being someone openly different was always going to factor in to how people treated me. I’m already not really a man, in their eyes, right? So why not just cut to the chase, externalize the internal.”

Quentin’s legs start to jerk, almost buckling. He sinks into a crouch pressing his forehead to the plaster.

Immediately, Eliot kneels at his side, stopping himself just short of bringing his hands together in supplication. Instead, he places his hand on top of Quentin’s, like he had on the edge of the mirror, when he was inside him.

“And I’ve come back,” Eliot asserts, squeezing his eyes shut, feeling his awe for Quentin sweeping through him, cracking him open, “because you showed me, like you always have, that I can be happy. That I _can_ hope for better. That I can be a part of something bigger, no matter who I was or what I did. Every second I’m with you is _hope_. Care. Truth. Bravery. Finding the best in me. In _people._ Even when we can’t see it in ourselves.”

And finding love. _Love_. For the first time in his entire fucking life. _Love_.

Eliot’s soul had known it. It’d slipped right out of his mouth, eons before his rational mind could hold him back.

Faced with the incomparable sight of Quentin – shaking, vulnerable, beautiful, trusting, seconds from coming – Eliot hadn’t been able to help himself. And afterwards, oh, he’d been terrified. He knew it would get ripped away, this beautiful, fledgling miracle between them. No matter what he did, no matter how strong the love inside him grew, it couldn’t last.

But that was wrong. So, so wrong.

It is what he _does,_ the actions he _chooses_ to take, every moment, that will make it last.

Starting with saying the words he’s always known he needs to say.

But then Quentin pulls his hand out of Eliot’s grip. “But I didn’t, Eliot. I didn’t see the best in you.”

“What?”

Quentin’s head bows lower. Tears _tap tap tap_ down onto the floor. “I didn’t trust you with this. With my life. With why August carves me open every fucking year and I can barely stop drowning until it’s over.”

“Sweetheart–” Quentin flinches at the word, and Eliot makes himself press through, knowing they both need this. “–no one would expect you to share that with them right away. That kind of loss–”

“If they mean something to me, yes, they should expect it.”

“No. No, baby–” Another shudder. Eliot can’t tell whether he’s doing more harm than good with these endearments. “–knowing someone takes _time_. Trust can be given easily, but it still needs to be built up. Fostered. Nurtured. On both sides.”

“Not if you don’t _have_ time. Not if there’s _never_ enough time.”

“But we have time, now,” Eliot reassures, tentatively, proving it to himself as much as to Quentin, with every syllable. “I realized that I don’t have to just sit back and let something happen. I can fight for what I want. I can change things. To make them better for you. To show you that you deserve everything. Quentin, I’ll do anything, I’ll do everything in my power–”

“That’s still not enough!” Q whispers. Pleads.

“Yes it is!” Eliot smiles.

Quentin turns and crashes into him, grabbing Eliot by the shoulders, clutching the doublet in his grip. His eyes are bloodshot, strands of matted hair sticking to his temples and fluttering against his eyelashes.

Eliot’s chest floods with love for him, despite how much he wants to weep too, seeing Quentin in such despair. He’s desperate to fix it all. If only he can find a way.

“Don’t you see?” Quentin says, his voice broken, hollow, barely louder than the crickets outside. “No matter what I do, I’m not enough. Never have been. I’m powerless. I’m nothing. That’s how I’m supposed to be. Alone. ‘Cause I’m not worth it, El, I’m not. I’m broken, and people always leave because I’m _not supposed_ to have them in my life. My father. Teddy. Arielle. You–”

“Q, I’m sorry,” beseeches Eliot. He puts his hand around Quentin’s neck, and feels him go limp. He presses Quentin into the hollow of his throat. “I’m so, so sorry. I shouldn’t’ve–”

“Everyone leaves me,” Quentin sobs, his voice breaking. He speaks right into Eliot’s skin. Cold tears leak and smear down his chest. “Everyone leaves. Why does everyone leave me? I’m sorry, whatever I did, I’m sorry. Don’t leave, everyone leaves, why does everyone–”

“I’ll never leave you. Never again. I was so wrong. I was _so_ wrong. I’m going to spend the rest of my life proving that to you.” Eliot settles Q on his lap, folding every one of his limbs around him, so Quentin can feel all of Eliot, holding him with everything he has. “You are the reason I’m _alive_. You are compassionate and wonderful and clever and heroic–”

“ _Stop_! I’m not–”

“Yes you are. And to me? To a damaged, brainless coward like me–“

“ _No_ , you’re not–“

Eliot chuckles wetly, pressing his nose into his hair. “Oh, Q. Yes I am. But you’ve always thought I could be more, and I’m going to try to live up to that. Because… because….”

The words. Come on! The words! The words that can never do the feeling justice! But they do their best anyway! The words that cannot bear to stay inside, not when they’re real and right and stronger than anything in this world! The words that prove, that promise, that _connect_ one heart to another!

With every ounce of care, he pulls away, just enough to cradle Quentin’s face in his hands, and look into his incandescent eyes.

“Because I love you.”

Quentin’s mouth opens, his jaw going slack.

Eliot traces delicate touches back and forth along his cheeks with his thumbs. He wants to say it again. So he does.

“I love you. I _love_ you. I should’ve been saying that from the beginning. And, knowing me, I’m probably going to be really weird about saying it in the future. If you have to, um, pry it out of me, you go ahead and do that, okay? You deserve to hear it so much, and I hope you never get tired of me saying it. And even if you do, I’ll try to keep saying it anyway.

“I love every piece of you,” Eliot continues, his throat running dry. “I love your way-too-smart brain, and how you manage to write things I can barely understand, until it clicks, and then I realize you’ve captured what it means to be _human_. I love your raunchy jokes, and your stubbornness, and the way I wake up in the morning with my arm totally dead, because you keep using me for a pillow. I love your dimples, and how your touch makes me want to pin you to the ground to suck you off, and those graying hairs you tuck twice, when you push your bangs out of your eyes. I love hearing about your too-good-to-be-true father and your beautiful son, and I love that you have the cutest blush, and an embarrassing palate when it comes to wine. And just hearing you say my name is a gift. I love being with you. If…, uh, if you’ll, um, let me stay, that is.”

Goose bumps stampede down Eliot’s spine. That wasn’t the best way to end his little outburst. He should’ve stopped at least three sentences earlier. Quentin hasn’t interrupted him this whole time either. Those fucking crickets are filling up the dead air around them like heckling groundlings.

Quentin’s mouth opens a few inches, but his face contorts, his breathing rapid and frantic. Still nothing.

There’s only one dumb last thing Eliot can think to say.

Halfheartedly, almost desperately, he teases, “What’s this, poet? No words?”

Quentin tugs him forward, kissing him breathless. The kiss is so sweet, so pained. It’s frantic and scared and lost. So Eliot finds him. He thumbs that spot behind Quentin’s neck, right at the base of his skull, while his lips press forward. He keeps the kiss close, soft. He lets their foreheads brush together, ignoring the tears soaking into his cheekbones, making sure Q feels the warmth of their bodies.

When Eliot has to come up for air, something inside Quentin finally seems to let go. He kisses Eliot again, opening up, tension evaporating from his shoulders. Eliot feels the stretch of a smile against his mouth. It feels like Quentin might be laughing in relief, or just crying harder, and Eliot’s probably doing the same; he can’t tell. All he can focus on is his joy, his little gasps. The way Quentin’s slipping his hands around Eliot’s neck too, and how he’s pressing his rough tongue inside his mouth.

Eliot lets Quentin take everything. Their kisses turn liquid, molten, sending a wave of longing through every nerve in his body. The butterflies in his stomach transform into another wonderful, familiar hunger. He doesn’t let it consume him, though. All his hopes have been realized. He’s so lucky. So unbelievably lucky. His Quentin is bracing himself on his knees so he can tower over him. He’s tugging Eliot’s hair back, and pressing his hips into him for some friction as he fucks his mouth with his tongue.

And Eliot is in rapture. This light is pouring into his darkness. Let Quentin have him. Have all of him.

When Quentin separates them – just an inch, to say, “Lock the doors. Come to bed with me” – and then climbs off to head for the staircase? It takes an embarrassingly long moment for Eliot to catch up. He’s immobilized, by the sight of Quentin turning away. Shucking off his shirt. Revealing the intoxicating sight of his flushed, bare back, glistening with sweat.

And he just…drops his shirt to the floor. All those rolling muscles along his spine, Jesus. Eliot has to snap his mouth shut, before he starts fucking drooling.

Quentin climbs the stairs, not checking to see if he’s being followed. As he reaches the top, there’s a _thump_ , and a single boot comes tumbling down the steps.

Fuck, Eliot can’t get off his ass fast enough. As he rises from the floor, his arms and back and legs scream at him. He’s so fucking sore; it’s ridiculous. It takes him way too long to amble over to the back door, latch it, and then shuffle to the front door too.

Once that’s done, he tries not to trip as he lurches up the stairs. He follows the boot to find its brother down the hallway. A dark bundle – Quentin’s _breeches, fuck_ – peaks out from a half-open, candlelit doorway at the end of the hall.

He feels like he’s on the hunt. Like he’s been trapped in Plato’s cave, and he’s finally found the passage out into the sun.

When Eliot steps into the bedroom, his heart begins to, impossibly, thunder harder. As Quentin uses a taper to light candles beside the four-poster bed, the shadows around his body fade away.

Revealed are his dusky, dark nipples, and the smooth dales of his ribcage. Eliot is treated to the beautiful sight of Quentin’s soft cock and his strong hips, as he gets closer and throws the taper into the fireplace.

And fucking hell, Eliot’s just a fucking fainting damsel at the sight, isn’t he? His knees literally can’t bear his weight right now. He has to use both hands against the doorjamb, to keep himself up.

“El?”

“All I want is to get my hands on you, and I can’t even stand up straight,” Eliot complains.

Quentin smiles. “Good thing there’s a bed.”

“Okay but please don’t hold it against me if I, like, collapse in the middle of things.”

Quentin starts coming towards him. No hesitation, all confidence. Before he can worry whether it's all an act, Eliot’s temperature spikes as Q brings his hands up around Eliot’s neck… and, just, _scrutinizes_ him. He’s held captive in Quentin’s adoring eyes. They barely blink as they dart along his forehead, his cheekbones, the cleft of his chin. Finally, he holds his gaze, steady. Eliot would swear he was caught in a gorgon’s stare, if he didn’t feel so warm, so safe, so alive.

Quentin knows him well. When he bites his lower lip, just a bit, Eliot can’t resist. He’s been waiting for this for so long. Deprived of it, for an eternity of days. It’s _h_ _eaven_ just to bend down and capture his mouth. Every ache falls away as their lips connect. All he feels is their heat. Their firm press. The little darts of Quentin’s tongue, as he gasps and invites him in.

It’s not until Eliot feels the bed behind his knees, and practically topples backwards, that he realizes he’s been directed from the door oh so subtly. Quentin guides him along, letting Eliot feel the soft blankets beneath his back, until his feet are off the ground.

“If you think you’re sleeping anytime soon….”

Eliot twines his fingers into Quentin’s hair, tugging a little, making Quentin hiss. His lovely little dick starts to thicken against Eliot’s thigh. “Don’t worry, I expect you’ll keep me up for a while.”

Quentin descends on his neck like nothing would make him happier. He sucks a mark into his skin, and then another, licking down into the divot of his collarbone. Oh fuck, Eliot’s missed this. The way every second bleeds together when they worship each other’s bodies. How every little movement is sharp and hazy and blissful, all at once.

Quentin’s hands start to caress and tug and compel, unhooking the halves of his doublet, one fastening at a time. Breathing hard, Eliot can’t keep his eyes off Quentin’s face as he undoes him, in every way. _Click. Click. Click._ His pupils grow wider and darker with every inch of skin he exposes.

Until, of course, the cloth of the white shirt beneath has the _gall_ to cut off his view. Giggles bounce around in Eliot’s chest as Q starts to frown. The scowl gets deeper and deeper, like he somehow expects the shirt to disappear, yet it continues to disappoint him.

“What’re you laughing at?”

“Your face. It’s just, like, unfairly and thoroughly adorable right now.”

Quentin squints, smirking. “You should see yours.” He draws the halves of the doublet apart and manhandles Eliot out of it and the shirt roughly. Then he guides Eliot onto his back, putting a hand over his hammering heart, pinning him down. “You’d do anything I told you to, wouldn’t you?” he whispers, his eyes endless.

Eliot shivers.

“I could tell you that you’re not allowed to make one sound, while I slowly lick you open. I could put my cock in your mouth, and only let you have one inch at a time, for hours.”

“ _Fuck_ , baby, _yes._ ”

Quentin. His voice, his words. He’s going to finish him before they get any further. Eliot’s dick is pressing against the line of his trousers. It’s getting more painful by the second, but Eliot wouldn’t have it any other way. Only Quentin can drive him wild like this.

When Q starts on the rest of Eliot’s clothes, he can’t help him fast enough. He’s flushed and hot, and he only wants the fire to spread. He’s craving that marvelous, soft, lush caress of his bare skin. The second the last scrap of clothing hits the floor, he turns to cup Quentin’s jaw, kissing him, panting with the effort. He slots his leg between Quentin’s, letting him feel his half hard cock against his hip. He drinks in his delicious gasps, and kisses him harder, barely breathing whenever he separates them, before he licks back in. Into the divine wet heat of his mouth. Quentin growls, pushing him on his back again, merciless as he wraps a strong hand around Eliot’s cock and gives him one long, hard stroke. He feels Quentin coating the length the more he moves, precome pearling out of the slit. He latches his mouth over one of Quentin’s nipples, licking and sucking. They writhe in the sheets, as Eliot moans at the taste of Quentin beneath his tongue. His mind can’t decide where to focus. Either on the pleasure he’s giving, or the delicious pumping of Quentin’s fist.

They both wind up staring at the sight. At the languid way Quentin moves. His hand _just_ fits around. There’s a scant, bare half inch, where his middle finger and thumb can’t quite connect thanks to the size of him.

They count the long seconds it takes for Quentin to stroke down the base, brush the dark hairs there, and draw back up, to drag his palm around the blushing, leaking head.

Eliot can’t contain the moans pouring out of him. He reaches behind Quentin, gripping his shoulder, his back, the globe of his ass, just to hold on. “You want to f-f-finish this that quick?”

Q doesn’t stop. He doesn’t escalate things, but he doesn’t stop, the bastard. “You’re that close?” he hums.

“Mmm. Ah!” Eliot shifts his head on the blankets, closing his eyes, trying to keep himself in check. “But you. You should….”

Q releases him, and Eliot wants to sob. Relief comes with Quentin’s hungry, devious kiss.

“What?” Q prods, between kisses, between breaths. “What should I?” But he commands Eliot’s mouth again before he can respond, coaxing his tongue inside, like that’s an answer all its own, showing him what he wants. Eliot does so gladly, elatedly. He’s so beyond grateful, for this moment, and the next, and the one after that. If Quentin wants something, something more than just making Eliot fall apart in his hands, he wouldn’t dream of denying him.

Although, then Q deigns to say, “You think _I_ oughta get to feel good first, don’t you,” in a show of egoism that he only exposes around Eliot. Only when they’re breathing each other’s lust like an opiate in the air. And of course, he’s read Eliot like a book. Eliot’s fully hard now, just from the sound of the words coming out of his mouth. He wants Quentin’s pleasure to echo in the ether, to reverberate in the music of the spheres.

“Let me take care of you, love,” Eliot begs. “Anything. Give you anything you want.”

He feels Q’s smile against his lips. At first, it’s composed of pure joy, simply from hearing that word fall between them. One little quirk of muscle, though, right in the corner of his mouth, tells him it’s turned a little sardonic. “’Anything’ sounds exhausting.”

Eliot retaliates with some chuckles of his own, and goes to prove that he’s got exactly enough energy to dispel any doubts. He settles Quentin on top of him, bringing Quentin’s hand up and taking two of his fingers into his mouth. Quentin shivers, his eyes rolling up, as Eliot’s tongue coats them, plays with the grooves of his knuckles. He holds Quentin’s wrist with the slightest pressure, letting the draw and suck rock them both just barely.

They’re not heavy, these digits, but they hold such power. The worlds they fashion, the passions they stir, the imaginations they evoke. They could end Eliot with a word. They have, sometimes. They’ve brought him here, they could send him off with a flick and a curl. And they are just one vital, charming, exquisite facet of the man before him.

A string of spit follows them, as he slowly draws them out and brings them around, so Quentin feels the cool press of his own fingertips on his hole. He stiffens, then adjusts himself just a bit, so they move together. Eliot guides Q’s fingers to circle the little ring of muscle, while Quentin’s hips undulate, countering the touch. One fingertip slips inside, and Eliot doesn’t know who makes that happen, him or Q, but Q moans at the feeling. The tight resistance is better than it’s ever been, and Eliot’s only feeling it by proxy. He holds Quentin’s neck, bending him down to kiss him as the resistance loosens, and he slips Quentin’s finger in to the second knuckle, fucking him with it, achingly slow.

“Mmm, mmmm, El.”

“Yeah, baby?”

“So. So good. So fucking good.”

“Want more?”

Q shudders, “So much. Much more.” Eliot slides his finger in further, and Q starts rocking. While he does, he raises his head. “If. If I want _a lot_ more, though…then we’ll, we’re gonna need a…little more help?”

The remnants of Eliot’s intellect manage gather themselves back together. “Where?” he asks.

“Gonna have to go. Downstairs. To get it.”

Eliot groans. “You’re fucking kidding me.”

Quentin only starts rocking back harder. “It’s not like... it’d be up here,” he whines. “I haven’t been–”

“No, I know, I know,” Eliot breathes. The thought of tearing himself away, for any amount of time, is madness. It’s impossible, unthinkable. It’s….

It’s out of his hands. Literally. By some torturous miracle, Quentin has found the willpower to pry himself away, and he’s out the door, leaving Eliot to collapse onto the mattress.

He wants to cry out in protest. The loss is temporary, he knows. Still, that barely helps slake the utter, torrential ache and wry impatience overtaking him. He wants to take himself in hand, to take the edge off, reminded of how he’d felt sleeping in Quentin’s bed last night too.

Only, he feels like he’s an entirely different man now. He’s been transformed, since then. Redeemed, maybe, in some immeasurably small way.

Some clangs and thuds come from downstairs. Eliot huffs, smiling.

Knowing that Quentin’s making that racket because he’s so eager to return, is a far headier thought than Eliot realized. He does wrap his hand around his cock, then. Closes his eyes. Retraces Quentin’s touch. His lips are tingling, still alight from kisses so insistent, so lovely, so radiant. He keeps himself afloat in the thrills running through his body. When Quentin runs back into the room, stopping dead in his tracks at the sight of Eliot cupping his balls, Eliot cracks an eye open with a smirk.

“It’s all for you, baby,” he mumbles.

Quentin wastes no time climbing back into bed. Eliot props himself up on an elbow to meet him. Q hovers, his breathing ragged, like he doesn’t know where to start. A lock of his hair drifts down, tickling Eliot’s forehead. His pupils are blown wide; his cheeks red and his lips redder. When he kisses Eliot this time, it’s his slowest yet. He draws it out, making Eliot feel like molten glass in a blower’s furnace. Quentin’s quivering, dropping a vial on the blankets so his hands are free, so he can clasp the sides of Eliot’s face. Eliot’s never felt more thoroughly at someone’s mercy, and he’d bet his very soul Q would say the same.

“You’re beautiful,” he says, still feeling the brush of that one errant strand. “You take my breath away. How the fuck did I get so lucky, love?”

Q whimpers.

“You want to hand me that? Ready for me to open you up? Get you ready for my cock?”

“It’s okay, I don’t–”

“I meant it, Q. Anything. Please, let me. For you.”

Q presses their foreheads together. “I’ll be happy with, fucking, _anything_. You’re _here_.”

“And I’m here for you. Nothing would make me happier.”

“Fuck, me too.”

Eliot grins, nipping at Q’s lip. “That sounds like the yes I’ve been waiting for.”

“I didn’t say that.”

Eliot catches his eyes. He tucks the lock of hair behind his ear. In a low, velvet voice, he says, “So then say it. Tell me what you want. Give me every syllable. You know what your words do to me.”

Quentin swallows. He lifts himself away, crawling across the mattress. He settles on his back: half against the headboard, half against the pillows. He opens his legs, his erection practically brushing his stomach, his ass clenching just a little. He takes in a few ragged, wrecked breaths. After an eternity of silence, as they both wait for him, he finally says, without a single stutter, “Eliot, I want you to fuck me. Gentle, but so I feel nothing else. Fuck me like you’re everywhere. Fuck me and tell me you love me.”

Eliot’s cock throbs with every edict. He drinks in this masterpiece. On all fours, vial in hand, he kneels before Q to worship, to honor, to give him everything he asks for.

He starts with kisses. Dozens of them, across the slope of Quentin’s nose, the lids of his russet eyes, the cupid’s bow of his lips. All while he pours lavender oil into his palm. He shuffles close, as intimate as he can be. He lets Quentin’s thighs rest on his, keeping them spread, so they’re almost suspended in the air.

His balls are heavy as Eliot’s hand dips beneath them, and he trickles some slick onto Quentin’s hole. The sweet, hot, lovely pucker clenches from the sensation, and Q melts back into the pillows the second Eliot massages his opening with his finger. The moment he slips that finger inside, Q starts to curl his legs around Eliot. He can feel the brush of his heels against his skin. So eager, so fucking eager. But still tense. Eliot nuzzles him with his nose, peppering little kisses into his dimples. His free hand caresses across the little hairs on Q’s chest, and trails over to glide around and curve around the back of his neck. He doesn’t press any further, just keeping his finger there, waiting, until the inner muscles start to loosen on their own, and he slides in almost to the knuckle.

Eliot laughs in awe, that Q’s inner walls are so warm, so smooth. Always, from that very first time, when he’d wanted to bring nothing but long, lingering pleasure to the man who’d surprised him, encouraged him, chased him, believed in him. Quentin's already clenching around him, his dick jerking in anticipation. Oh fuck Eliot feels wild, even a little feral, _mine, mine, mine_ sparking through his head. Eliot withdraws, only a little, and presses back in, letting the oil do most of the work.

He leans over, whispering in Quentin’s ear, as he really starts to move, to fuck him with his fingers. “I dream of sights like this. Of you, taking all of me. Feel that, baby? I get so hard just thinking about you.” He remembers where that little sweet spot inside him is. The moment he brushes it, Q cries out, his mouth slack as his eyes roll back. “No matter whether I’m awake or asleep, though, I know one thing. I know we were meant for each other.”

Quentin moans as Eliot picks up the pace even more. He adds more oil, using his thumb to rub into his perineum at the same time. Another brush, right along that sensitive nub, and he’s able to slip in a second finger while Q shudders from the lightning in his veins. He grabs onto Eliot’s shoulders, moving his hips in desperation.

“Yeah. Yeah, baby. I know. Nearly there. Gotta keep working you open though. You’re being so good. Perfect.” Scissoring his fingers eases some of the hurry for both of them. He lets Q see him openly stare, meeting his eyes every so often as he tries to keep himself in check too. He has no armor for this. No barriers, no deflections, no masks. Open, genuine lust. Adoration. Dedication. All out in the open. This kind of focus, this trust, is so delicate. So important. So worthy.

By the time he gets to the third finger, stretching him and stretching him, oil is starting to trickle down Quentin’s tailbone onto the mattress. Eliot’s tormented by these little brushes of skin, from the back of Quentin’s thighs. He’s deliciously pinned by the cage of Q’s legs around his ass. Eliot’s so hard, it hurts. God, he wants to just _inhale_ him. Breathe in his _skin_. Bury every part of him inside Q forever until there's no end and no beginning, just _them._ He drinks in his open sobs, feasts on them.

He says, barely breathing, “I know I’m not always easy to take–” and Q flashes him a livid glare at the double meaning. Eliot’s wicked enough to enjoy it. He enjoys himself even more when he elicits a beautiful whine, as he slowly brings his fingers all the way out. He spreads oil over them again, and starts to pump his cock in his fist. “But you always do. Always so open for me. Kind. Thoughtful. Thinking I’m my best self.”

Readjusting his position, he takes Q’s leg, and exposes him wider. Q’s entrance is fluttering, almost open entirely on its own. Eliot takes himself in hand, and swirls the head of his dick right over the little ring. At the feeling, there’s a sudden avalanche of lust inside him. He knows how big he is, but it doesn’t stop the longing surging inside every muscle. To just thrust right in, claim him, make him scream.

But he wouldn’t dream, wouldn’t even consider, being anything but gentle, just as he was asked to be. He slips the head inside Q’s body reverently, and they groan in harmony.

He inches in a little farther. Chokes on the heat, the squeeze. Quentin clutches him, bringing him closer, so their mouths are inches apart.

Every word he utters brushes their lips together. “I’m only good because of you,” Eliot pants. “I’m only happy because of you.” Another inch, more oil, and Eliot has to dredge up memories of cold winter snow, just to tether himself to sanity.

After a fucking eon of transient patience – disrupted only by these little thrusts of his hips, which he’s too weak to resist – Eliot’s fully seated inside him.

“Breathe,” he says, hardly sure who he’s saying it to.

Because the way Q’s ass just _rests_ in the dip of his hips. The way Eliot’s balls brush against his cheeks, while Quentin’s tease the trail of hair below Eliot’s navel. Their chests heave together. A heady scent, from the herbs Q excavated, and the musk of their sweat and sex, fills his lungs.

Gasping for air, seeing his hands are free, Quentin clasps his wrists and drags them above his head. Right against the headboard.

_Yes, Q. Of course._

He reorients their hands. Twines their fingers together. And pulls back, to thrust hard inside.

Quentin’s cries are sweeter than an angelic chorus. Eliot keeps his thrusts shallow, rolling his hips, brushing against that nerve inside him constantly. The velvet, smooth channel is all he can feel.

“Fuck, baby, fuck, so _fucking_ good.”

Quentin’s capacity for words has long passed them by. He seals their mouths together, and Eliot can divine his meaning like a soothsayer reading their tarot. He presses his tongue in, fucking his mouth as his hips fuck him harder. There’s a delicious burn in his calves, in the arms he’s using to keep Q pinned to the headboard. Quentin digs his heels in even more, every inch of him trembling. His cock, trapped between them, is practically leaking, twitching and jerking with every move he makes. He’s keening, every inch of him as taut as a harp string. Some tears are even prickling at the edges of his eyes.

Eliot kisses them away. “You close, love?”

“ _El._ ”

“Don’t hold back. Let go. I’m here with you. I love you. I _love_ you.”

He fucks him relentlessly, endlessly, and Q is coming untouched between them, hot come spurting against Eliot’s ribs. Eliot follows right after, his head dipping to press against Quentin’s, and he empties himself into the tight, gorgeous heat of him. Everything goes white, fuzzy, warm, blank. A heavenly slick void of pleasure they're suspended inside together, as one. 

He has barely enough wits about him to pull out, sometime later. But he apparently doesn’t have enough sense left to roll off of his love before he’s drifting off to sleep.

When he wakes, he’s on his side, and it’s a new day. On the other side of the room, there’s a tranquil, quiet rain falling outside the tall windows. A soft grey light illuminates the blankets swathing his legs.

A few hazy thoughts come to him then. Drifting through his mind, like a flurry of leaves borne by the last summer wind. He doesn’t have to do… anything. There’s no schedule, no “noble responsibilities.” He has no appearances to make, no wedding to prepare for. Not even a play to rehearse. There’s an empty stretch of unoccupied time before him. A whole life to live.

Is this what peace is?

Having nothing, as well as nothing but possibilities, all at once?

He hears the faint scratching of a quill, and the little tinking taps of its nib, against the ink pot. He turns his head on the down pillow. His throat catches.

Q’s sitting up, with his hair in a loose bun. A single candle flickers atop what looks like a kind of lap-desk, which he’s got bracketing his legs. He’s concentrating hard, blinking and squinting in the darkness. He gnaws at his plump bottom lip, tapping the feather against his chin every now and then. As tense as he usually is, whenever the muse is on him, he also looks more at peace than Eliot’s ever seen him.

This. This can fill Eliot’s days. His eyes full of nothing but Quentin. Watching him make worlds, with the stroke of a pen.

It turns out Eliot’s script is the particular world he has propped before him today. Eliot can recognize the sealskin clinging to the last page.

Q finishes a sentence with a satisfied sigh. He massages his wrist, stretching his arms, and he sees Eliot staring.

“Hi,” Quentin breathes.

“Hi.”

Q drinks in the sight of him too. It sends a flare of heat pooling in Eliot’s belly. A memory, or perhaps a dream, floats into his mind. The feeling of Quentin in the dark, wrapping himself around his back, spooning him after he climbed back into bed from a brief absence. Of turning to face him, just a few minutes later. Of lifting his knee over his leg, sinking his cock back inside him, still open and slick and wet from their lovemaking earlier. Of another slow, sweet fuck. And coming with Q’s name on his tongue.

Quentin must see the flush on his face. He darts a glance at the pages in front of him.

“What’re you working on?” Eliot asks, at war with himself. Whether to distract him from his work, or let him finish.

Quentin smiles, ducking his head. He rubs his feet together under the covers. The equivalent of fidgeting with his hands, when his fingers are otherwise occupied. “I’m, uh, canonizing your ending.”

Eliot gives a mock gasp. He bats his eyes coquettishly. “Caving to the fickle tastes of the uncultured masses?” he purrs. “Are you sure?”

“Shut up,” Q nudges him with a snort.

“But think of the artistic integrity!”

“But think of how I know what you’re really asking,” Q says snidely, matching his tone. “Yes, I’m sure.”

Eliot wets his bottom lip. That subliminal little pit in his stomach shrinks back into nothing. Of course Q could see right through him. “I… I just meant….”

Q gives him a solemn, soft look. “I know. And stripping away all our usual bullshit: I really am sure. I promise. It’s a good ending, El. If you want me to talk your ear off on how it’s, like, more tonally consistent with my other plays, or whatever, I will.”

“Oh you _know_ how I get when things are tonally consistent."

Q’s mouth twists. He looks like he wants to roll his eyes so badly, but he can’t resist the praise either. Whatever expression he settles on, Eliot treasures how cute it is. How happy it makes him.

“What made you decide to add it in?” he asks.

Quentin glances at the script again, and different kind of pensivity crosses his face. It sends worry rumbling in the back of Eliot’s brain, but he tells himself not to assume anything.

The better he gets about that, the more heartbreak they might avoid in the future. They’ve already done enough of _that_ , thank you.

“It just. It caught my eye, when I went downstairs,” Q says eventually.

“Just now?”

Quentin shakes his head. “Earlier. After you, um, kinda passed out–”

“Shit, sorry.”

“Pfff, yeah. I’m totally gonna make you apologize for the best sex we’ve ever had.”

“Careful, that’s my ego you’re stroking.”

Q gives him a flat smile, and taunts, “Yeah, I guess I should be careful. _You_ got hit with that post-show crash, and you didn’t even know it.” Before Eliot can ask, Q waves it off, promising to explain later. “Anyway, you were basically out, and I wanted to tidy things up a litt–”

Eliot abruptly puts his hand over his eyes. “ _And_ I made you fall asleep in the wet spot, oh shit–”

“ _And_ that doesn’t matter.”

“It’s, like, impolite to–”

“Oh my god, seriously, you can, like, make it up to me later if you really want to,” Q says. “Did you want me to answer your question or not?”

Eliot takes his hand away, nodding and feeling fittingly chastised. He thought Q’d decided on a vague, let’s-not-get-into-it-now kind of answer. Apparently there was more to it. There always is.

And what a comfort that is.

An insidious fear, that Q’s about to kick him out, tries to get some purchase inside his heart, even after everything that’s happened. His fledgling faith, in _them_ , in who they are _together_ , wins out in the end.

Q pushes the lap desk to the foot of the bed, so he can extricate his legs. The candle shimmers. The rain endures.

He shimmies down, turning on his side, to face Eliot across the pillows. “I’ll admit,” he murmurs, “when I saw it in your hands last night…. At first all I could thing was that you’d decided you couldn’t keep it. That you had to give it back to me.”

Eliot reaches over, and clasps his hand. “No. Never.”

“I know better now,” Q sighs. “But it got me thinking. Seeing it, when I went down there. I heard what you said last night, all over again, in my, my head. And, and I, I thought about. How you said you run away, when you get scared. And how you said I encourage you. And think you’re your best self. But…” Quentin takes a deep breath. “But _I_ run. I do. I run too. I find places to hide away, instead of facing things. So, I’m sorry. For saying one thing and, and, not. Living up to it.”

Another cascade of denials and reassurances builds up in Eliot’s chest. Instead, he gives these thoughts their space. Gives them the weight that Quentin wants to give them. It’s a tenuous thing; knowing that if he denies things right away, Q’s mind may just double-down on its reprimands. But he can’t just... _not_ try to help him see things differently, either.

A little while later, he says, “We’re never going to be perfect at… at all this. At us.”

“Perfect? I’ll settle for periodically constant.”

Eliot looks up at the canopy of the bed. “Hm. A delightful oxymoron, that.”

“I do my best.”

“I’ll say this much. If I remember things right? We are pretty good at running after each other too.”

He feels Q take his hand, pull it over, and plant a kiss on the back. “Yeah. We do, don’t we? Run after each other.”

“We do.”

Q shifts closer across the mattress. The side of Eliot’s body flushes from the sudden new heat pressing against him. He turns his head, brushing their noses together.

Quentin’s wide eyes suddenly meet his. “Hey, um, what do you want to do today?”

The question’s unexpected, and so earnest. Eliot feels that ocean of possibilities stretch out in front of him all over again. “Won’t the rain kinda limit our options?”

Quentin moves their hands again. He brings them up and settles them on a pillow. It’s almost like they’re both clutching them to their chests. “What. Do. You want to do today?” he repeats sternly.

“Um. What needs to get done?”

A frown edges against Quentin’s mouth.

Eliot’s not avoiding this on purpose. Definitely not. Nope.

But he’s gotta have _some_ kind of framework. Right? They can’t just stay in bed and make love for the rest… of…

Yes they can. Fuck. _Yes. T_ _hey. Can._

But, not, like, for the rest of their lives, obviously. As tempting as that’d be – _so_ fucking tempting – Eliot has these other, more domestic fantasies to try out too. The thought sends a flutter through his ribs.

“I mean, if you wanna get technical,” Q says, still frowning, “we probably need to clean up after. After the mess I made.”

“Would you… prefer that I… not ask about what was on your mind?” Eliot hedges. “When you were– I mean. Should we let that conversation happen another time?”

“That’s. Nice of you. And… yeah. If that’s okay.”

“Of course. We’ve got the time.”

That frown’s finally replaced by a hesitant smile. “Yeah, we’ve got the time.”

There’s this swooping feeling inside Eliot now. The kind he’d get if someone nudged his horse into a full gallop, flying through the air, holding on for dear life. He can do anything. Anything at all.

Eliot kisses Quentin on the nose. Q copies him.

A-fucking-dorable. Eliot’s swallowed the sun, hasn’t he? He’s glowing and there’s this syrupy sweetness in his lungs and–

Wait. Horse.

Okay, look, to be fair, he’s still only half awake. But he really needs to stop forgetting things.

“What’s _that_ face for?”

“I left my horse out on the road.”

“Oh. No, she’s fine, I brought her around to the garden.”

“Oh my God, what else did you get up to while I was being a rude deadweight up here?”

“Nothing. I’m serious! Nothing! And she’s probably happy to munch on the, you know. That ruined Eden down there. Anyway.”

Eliot elects not to remark on that. It calls to mind Quentin’s story, about playing with Teddy in the garden. The memory sits unsaid between them. Heavy, but not impossible to carry.

“And I’d... be happy to... help plant a few new things back there. After the horse’s done,” Eliot offers instead.

Seeing the surprised look on Quentin’s face is almost _too_ satisfying. “You really want to get your hands dirty?”

“I’ve been waiting to really get my hands dirty for, like, a decade. If you don’t keep an eye on me, I’ll wind up, you know, making mud pies. Or digging a hole ‘til I reach the Silk Road or something.”

“Keep an eye on you? Is that all I’ll be doing?”

Eliot bites both of his lips, and then purses them. “Nooooo?”

“Okaaaaaay?”

“Maybe you’ll be. Writing. Or something?”

Quentin takes a breath, and lets the air out of his lungs slowly. As Eliot rushes to take it back, Q stops him, squeezing his hand gently. “I’d like to. I think. Might have to wait a bit for an idea. But I think I will, one day. Any interest in, in helping me? Like before?”

Eliot’s eyes start to burn. “Yes.Of course. God, _fuck_ yes. I’ve, I’ve missed that. So much. More than you could ever know.”

“I have a pretty good guess,” Q replies softly. His eyes go a little distant as he thinks it over. “The queen wanted something cheery, right? That’ll be a good place to jump back in. We’ve earned a proper comedy, I think. Maybe even a farce.”

Eliot agrees with him.

Except…

“Speaking of earning things.”

“Yeah?

Eliot really needs to stop with the surprises. Once was enough.

But he scolds himself: he’s a good friend. If he pushes this off now, it’ll only be easier to keep pushing it off later. And he _would_ prefer to save himself a lot of bodily harm in the future if he can help it. “Well, you _may_ also owe Margo a tragedy.”

If Q was thrown off before, he’s down right alarmed now. “I do?”

“She said that was her price for helping me get back,” Eliot says sheepishly. “Hell, I’ll write it for you, if you want. I owe her plenty enough already.”

Q hums a laugh. “We both do. No, I’m sure I’ll find something for her.” Then his eyebrows crease, almost deviously. “Think she’s any good at a Scottish accent?”

Honestly, Eliot has no idea, and he says as much. When he asks Q why, he just shrugs, mentioning an account he read in _Holinshed’s Chronicles_ , about a Scottish king whose story sounded interesting enough to tell. And any interesting king would definitely have a powerhouse queen pulling his strings, right?

As for the comedy, which Queen Julia has all but commissioned, maybe he’ll just do twins again. Which prompts Eliot to scoff, asking why everyone in theatre likes to write about twins all the time. And _naturally_ Q gets this deeply serious, philosophical look on his face, and Eliot practically melts into a puddle as he listens to Quentin Coldwater just _go off_.

As he puffs out the candle and sets the lap desk on the ground, he gets so goddamn _earnest_. About how twins symbolize – among other things – how we always wonder who we could have been, if the circumstances we're born into were just a little different. Or how they let people see what would happen, if they got to do things they'd normally never get away with. And how they’re a reflection of people feeling like, like, like they have two halves of themselves. One they present to the world, and the other the person they really are on the inside.

“And then we toss in a slap stick and a little of the old inflatable bladder, and the crowd’s never the wiser,” Eliot surmises.

“Maybe a little wiser,” Quentin bickers.

“Very little.”

“I taught you a thing or two.”

Quentin’s leg fits in between Eliot’s knees. He lets go of Eliot’s hand to comb his fingers through his curls. Smoothly, suavely, he curls a finger under his chin, brings Eliot close, and ducks down at the last moment, to kiss his jaw, his cheek, and then his collarbone. Eliot runs a complementing touch along his shifting shoulders, into the divot of his spine.

Taking things like this for granted is dangerous. It’s too good to be true.

And somehow, all the same, it’s true anyway. Undeniably. He’ll get more sunrises like this, and more sunsets. He’ll get breakfasts and dinners and suppers. That he’ll help to _make_ , even, sometimes. There will be clothes to buy, and then to wear. And then not wear, ha! They’ll maybe go back to London at some point. See the others. Do another show with them. And there’ll be books to read. To reconsider, and to contrast, and to get into ridiculous, way out of proportion arguments with Quentin over. Eliot will have seeds to sow, and rooms to sweep, and socks to mend, and plays to watch and perform in. He’ll get to earn a bit of a living of his own. Anything he can get his hands on, he wants to try.

And of course, he’ll always get his hands on Quentin. One way or another.

He sneaks in, when Quentin’s in between kisses, to capture his mouth. He breathes with him. Feels his own embarrassingly bad morning breath drift over his nostrils. He props himself up, turning them, to let Q lie on his back. Some of Eliot’s limbs are still stupidly sore, but how can that compare to Quentin’s amazing little body starting to squirm beneath him, his adorable pink nipples peaking against Eliot’s pecs.

“I never got to tell you how amazing you were. As Brian,” he whispers. He presses small kisses down his neck. “I felt like I was just trying to keep up with you, the whole time.”

“I couldn’t have done any of it, if, if you hadn’t been there,” Quentin says, his voice almost catching in his throat. “You saved us. You saved me. You always save me.”

“You too. Every second.” Eliot lifts himself up for a moment. “I know where I’d be, if it weren’t for you. I’ll never forget that, as long as I live.”

Quentin shifts back a bit, propping himself up too. He cups Eliot’s cheek. “You gave me back so much. Not just my inspiration, my words. I wasn’t… even… thinking his name. And I thought I could, just, _exist_ that way.” Q looks down, speaking towards his chest, his throat thick. “Sure, I’d, you know, endure August whenever it came, but then I’d keep soldiering on. Maybe I’d tell someone. Maybe I wouldn’t. That wouldn’t have been living, but that’s what I’d resigned myself to, without knowing it. And then? Suddenly, you’re there. And you asked about Fillory. You just…cared. Even before you knew why it was so important. You just did. You do. You gave that to me, and then to the company, to the audience. They’ll remember that forever.”

Eliot tries to breathe. It comes out as more of a shaky rasp, audible amidst the rain. The downpour’s not letting up. It might just keep them indoors all day after all. “You’re the one who immortalized it all. You took the best of us, and showed thousands of people what it means to love. To live.”

“I, uh, um, don’t know about _immortalized.”_

Eliot gives him a wry look. He abruptly plops down on Quentin’s chest, making him grunt a little. He ignores his discomfort in favor of putting his hands on his chest, and setting his chin atop them smugly. Q’s eyebrows draw together, exasperated, especially when he realizes Eliot’s effectively trapped him like this.

“I do,” Eliot says. He blinks slowly, serenely, a cat with the canary.

“Okay, I’ll bite. Why?”

“You think people aren’t gonna wanna perform _Brian and Nigel_ for themselves? Years and centuries and millennia down the road? You think they won’t wanna argue with each other about all the _themes_ , and the rhymes, and why you wrote what you wrote, when they read the play in some _Collected Works_ of yours?”

“That sounds like a bit much,” Q protests.

“You think the play’s not gonna inspire other people? To write their own plays and stories, trying to copy your artistry?”

Q goes quiet.

Eliot softly continues. “Think about all those little pieces of us they’ll put in their own works. We’ll be scattered and refracted throughout the ages, dear Q. It’s going to happen.”

The magnitude of the idea seems to sink into Quentin’s head. His head falls back into the pillow, his body stilling and ceasing to fidget. Eliot probably shouldn’t be so confident about this. All that applause from an audience does have a way of rose-tinting one’s memories about a show. But in this case, he will. For right now, just between the two of them, he’ll be as confident as he damn well pleases, when it comes to how influential Q’s plays are.

“That’s a big thought,” Q eloquently declares after a while.

“Sure. It’s how _you_ write things, yeah? You just said you wanna write about what someone else wrote, about a Scottish king. And you like what Chaucer did. And Homer. And all those other classics. Parts of their characters wound up inside yours. One story leads to creating another.”

“And that’s how…” Quentin trails off.

When he doesn’t finish for some time, Eliot gently prompts him. “How the very first stories got inspired?”

“How Teddy’s going to live on, too.”

Eliot swallows. He thinks back to those questions Q’s always had, ever since he was young. The ones he confessed to, on their first fateful night. “Yeah. Definitely. No matter whether there’s an afterlife. Or whether there’s a point to all this.”

“We live on in stories. Some little spark of us always lasts,” muses Quentin.

The simple sentences make them both smile. Just to themselves at first, and then their eyes meet, reaffirming the ideas to each other. Eliot raises his chin, and parts his hands. He presses them flat on Q’s chest, like he’s at prayer. He kisses Quentin right over his heart.

Eliot can’t wait to see where their stories go, where they’ll wind up, who they’ll become, after their little lives punctuate in the annals of history.

Quentin soon tugs Eliot back above him, kissing him and kissing him and kissing him, as the rain falls, as the bed creaks, as the smoke from the candle drifts and dissipates into the air.

They are together.

They love each other.

They’ll live by those truths. And they’ll live, on and on, in every untold fantasy that’s to come.

* * *

[ ](https://yourtinseltinkerbell.tumblr.com/post/630338909565485056/all-those-little-pieces-of-us-theyll-put-into)

* * *

FIN

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading this, and for sticking through it all the way to the end. This is either the nerdiest theatre thing I've ever done, or the theatre-iest nerdy thing I've ever done. Whatever you wanna call it, I'm so beyond grateful that I get to share it with all of you. It's hard to believe so much has happened since I started it in February. I hope this fic was at least some of what you hoped it'd be. It certainly kept me going.
> 
> And, okay, bonus points for anyone who managed to spot all the Shakespeare I used in this. There's, like, so much, y'all. His life, his poetry, his words. I need to chill. Some of it IS my own original dialogue, though. As you saw, I didn't do line-by-line references for the things I adapted/borrowed - both from The Bard and from the show - because I figured the people who actually care would get it, and the people who don't care...wouldn't care anyway? IDK, if you reeeeeeally want to twist my arm about it you can ask in a comment, and I can cite my sources in an obnoxiously long reply, haha. 
> 
> And bonus bonus points if you go give [yourtinseltinkerbell](https://yourtinseltinkerbell.tumblr.com/) every ounce of love you have right now, 'cause, hello, THOSE GRAPHICS. I STILL CAN'T EVEN. SHE'S A GENIUS. Every time she sent me a new piece I gushed about all the possible layers of meaning behind her choices, and the literal layers of the graphics, and guuuuuuhh there aren't words. She went above and beyond my wildest dreams, and I'm still not over it, and never will be.
> 
> PS: Hey, I love you, dear readers. Thank you again. This fandom has weathered so much, and we're still here. I'm so happy to be here with you. I'd love a comment, if you have the time. How'd I do? I genuinely want to know your thoughts, friends. Otherwise I'll just be Old-Man-Yells-At-Cloud-ing it over here, haha. I hope you're taking care of yourselves, and doing what you can to feed your spirits. May all your passion projects give you as much joy as this one gave me.


End file.
